Home Is Where The Heart Is
by The Irish Chauffeur
Summary: The story of Tom Branson and Lady Sybil Crawley set against the contemporary backdrop of the Irish Civil War and the Irish War of Independence. Now fully updated and continuing. The earlier chapters are being posted again to set the scene, for those who may have missed them. Some of the later chapters contain scenes which some readers may find upsetting. Do please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Arrival at Kingstown

Of course, the constantly scavenging flock of white, black tipped seagulls, wheeling raucously beneath the lowering storm-laden clouds, and all but invisible high above the mist shrouded slate grey waters of Kingstown Harbour, had seen it all before. Far below the soft plump feathered bodies of the ever circling birds, there unfolded the daily constant ebb and flow, the flotsam and jetsam of a microcosm of humanity on board the vessels traversing the infinitely changeable - sometimes benign and calm, sometimes rough and storm wracked - silvery waters of the Irish Sea. So, the beady eyed gulls took no particular interest or note of the black hulled, twin stacked steamer now slowly approaching the outer reaches of the encircling granite walls of the harbour.

In the pearl grey light of an early morning in June 1919, the RMS Munster, registered to the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company, after a calm, singularly uneventful two and a half hour voyage across the Irish Sea from the Admiralty Pier at Holyhead, nosed gently midst a small fleet of fishing smacks and other diminutive craft, into the safety of the calm waters of the harbour and moored at the Carlisle Pier in Kingstown.

From their unrivalled vantage point, high up on the promenade deck of the sleek 2,640 ton steamer, Sybil Crawley and her fiancé Tom Branson stood and watched the detailed and orderly preparations being put in hand to disembark them and their fellow passengers, and land their luggage and other cargo onto the quayside.

Midst a thunderous roar, accompanied by the metallic slithering of heavy greased chains, two enormous anchors were run out from the bows of the ship, thereafter falling almost simultaneously into the murky depths of the harbour and, in the process, sending up two enormous spouts of filthy dirty sea water; heavy tarred mooring ropes, as thick as a man's arms were, with an air of almost casual indifference born of long years of experience, cast down by members of the ship's crew to be caught by the time-served stevedores waiting on the quayside, while from almost directly above where Tom and Sybil were standing there came a deep, booming blast from the ship's whistle as the vessel was finally made fast to the large cast iron bollards lining the edge of the quay.

Sybil put her hands to her ears in a vain attempt to try and shut out the cacophony of sounds now assailing her from all sides.

"What? What did you say, Tom? **Carlisle **Pier?"

Laughingly, Tom nodded.

"Yes, that's what I said. **Carlisle **Pier", he yelled, if only to make himself audible to her above the discordant din unfolding about them, swiftly assuring Sybil that the pier was **not** another of Sir Richard's devilish works, being named instead after a former Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.

While the preparations associated with the disembarking continued, the dissonance of associated noise gradually died away, allowing Tom to speak normally and continue with his explanation.

"Of course, **we **don't call it that. See, us Oirish have never had any respect for our betters, milady!" chuckled Tom, deliberately thickening his accent. He winked at Sybil who, laughing at his playful silliness, gently batted his chest. "No, to those of us that live here, in Kingstown, in Dublin … it's the Mail boat Pier and, I suppose, it always will be".

By now, while Tom and Sybil and their fellow passengers continued to wait patiently on board, a crowd of anxious but happy onlookers had gathered on the granite setts of the quayside, gazing up at the passengers lining the rails of the Munster, no doubt seeking familiar faces, ready to welcome home family and friends. Occasionally, as recognition suddenly dawned on various individuals, both on board ship and amongst those on the quayside, joyful shouts of greeting rang out and caps, hats, hands, and arms were all vigorously waved.

With no-one to greet them, nor to reproach or reprimand her for what **they** would undoubtedly have considered Sybil's inappropriate familiarity with a man in public, let alone the unsuitability from **their **perspective of the young Irishman with whom she had fallen so hopelessly in love, Sybil leant comfortably back against her handsome fiancé, enjoying the intense physical intimacy of the moment and let the spontaneous frivolity, the untrammelled happiness of the scene unfolding about and below them, wash over her like a soothing balm. And if by some miracle, her haughty sister Mary had been transported from the cloying, stultifying confines of Downton Abbey to the open promenade deck of the Munster riding here at anchor alongside the appropriately named Carlisle Pier in Kingstown Harbour , Sybil would have revelled in her sister's no doubt vocal and censorious disapproval. That the relationship between Sybil and Tom flew in the face of the social conventions of the time and everything the aristocratic Crawleys stood for no longer bothered her … not one whit.

For his part, Tom, standing behind Sybil, his chin nestled snugly against her shoulder, his arms clasped tightly about her waist, began to point out to her various local landmarks.

He chose to make a start with the ugly, crown topped, obelisk, built to commemorate the building of the harbour, and the visit of George IV back in 1821.

"Take a good look, my love. It won't be there for much longer. Not when we get our independence. And then, then I'll see to it that it's replaced with something far more elegant, far more fitting, far more graceful – to mark **your **arrival here on Irish soil!" Tom nibbled affectionately at Sybil's right ear, and then covered her cheek with soft kisses. As she turned instinctively in his arms towards him, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her passionately, while just above them, a solitary passing seagull screeched its seeming approval of the intimate scene taking place below its outstretched snow white wings.

Gently breaking apart, Tom slipped his hands back around Sybil's slender waist and, while a fussy self-important little engine belonging to the Dublin and South Eastern Railway whistled and marshalled the crimson red coaches of the Dublin train on the quayside beneath the slate roof of the wooden train shed on the pier, Tom continued with Sybil's introduction to the sights of Kingstown visible from the gently heaving, scrubbed, sea bleached deck of the Munster.

There was the colourful cast iron bandstand standing on the long stone ribbon of the East Pier, the soaring spire of the church of St Michael and that of the Mariners'. With a mock solemnity, and in sonorous tones worthy of Mr Carson, Tom gravely informed Sybil that the latter had been built to "care for the spiritual needs of seafarers. Not that I t'ink many of the sailors bother with it. I'm sure they prefer the more er … intimate hospitality on offer in some of the more disreputable lodging houses and rundown tenements in other parts of the town" chuckled Tom.

And when Sybil rolled her eyes and, with an equal mock display of feigned innocence, enquired blithely of him precisely what kind of hospitality that might be, Tom merely grinned, then glancing about to ensure no-one was in the immediate vicinity, gently slapped her bottom, and kissed her soundly once again, telling her that that was no fit question for a lady to ask of a gentleman.

Giggling, Sybil promptly retorted that he was no gentleman and she, by consorting with him, no lady, Tom laughed out loud and promptly changed the subject. He had, Sybil had by now come to realise, an infuriating, albeit endearing, knack of doing precisely that, if only out of a misplaced sense of propriety for her sensibilities or out of sheer devilment - she could never decide which it was, perhaps a bit of both - whenever something arose in the course of their conversations which at that precise point in time he did not feel appropriate or wish to discuss any further – whether or not, as he often did, he voluntarily returned to the subject then under discussion at a later date.

"And over there, Sybil, my love, that's the clock tower of the Town Hall. And that, that's one of the hospitals. They call it the Kingstown Lying-in Institute. And there's George's Street and beyond that …"

Now that the relatively short sea crossing from Holyhead was all but over, at last Tom seemed finally to have regained his boyish enthusiasm, his infectious good humour, his easy manner, and his normal equilibrium. For, if the truth be told, if only to Sybil, so conscious was she of the slightest change in him that, while the Munster ploughed on resolutely across the Irish Sea, for much of the voyage Tom had seemed somewhat pre-occupied.

Sybil wondered if it was simply down to a queasy stomach – after all, he had told her that he was not a particularly good sailor. And if it was not that, then perhaps it was an understandable, albeit uncharacteristic, attack of nervousness on Tom's part brought on, maybe, by the imminent prospect of meeting once again with his family after so many years' absence in England, and also, given the particular uncertainty of the present times, of introducing Sybil to them as his future wife; an English born lady, and a Protestant to boot.

For despite Tom's earnest assurances to the contrary, Sybil suspected that Tom's Catholic family might be just as hostile to their impending nuptial union as her family had been, and indeed, for all his apparent acceptance of the situation, for him seeing no profit in a quarrel with her and Tom, her own imperious father was still. And when all was said and done, in a society and world but recently torn apart by war and revolution, Robert Crawley had looked for constancy to the one thing in his life – Downton apart – that gave him certainty: his wife and children; only to find that his youngest daughter was running off to God knew where, to God knew what, and marrying the family chauffeur.

After all, from what Sybil had read in Freeman's Journal, in old copies of the nationalist Irish Independent (even though the latter had been hostile to the Easter Rising) and also from what Tom had told her during several lengthy talks on Irish politics in the garage back at Downton, ever since the failure of the Rising and its brutal suppression, for most of the indigenous population, hostility to the English, which to them was second nature, was increasing in virulence, and it was only a matter of time before this once again spilled over into violence. Where that might lead, and what form it might take, none could, she thought, say with any degree of certainty. But, that apart, it was all too clear that the English, in particular the landowners and the army, had long out stayed their welcome here in Ireland – had they ever enjoyed one in the first place.

And yet, as Kingstown hove into view, and as the Munster steamed slowly onwards, drawing ever closer to his Gaelic homeland, if anything, during their frugal meal on board in the third class saloon and in their turns around the deck, Tom had seemed slightly distant with her and, for him, uncharacteristically inattentive to attending to her every need. Thereafter, he had made some excuse to briefly slip away from her. Given her training as a nurse, Sybil wondered idly, and without too much concern for him, if for Tom the combination of their recent meal, a sudden slight swell in the sea, and his own undoubted lack of sea legs, had proved too much for him, and seeking to spare her and himself embarrassment, Tom had needed to find somewhere private to be sick. If so, Tom need not have bothered – after all in the course of her duties as a nurse during the war, she had seen much worse than men - Cousin Matthew included - vomiting up the contents of their own stomachs.

But then, during his momentary absence, a steward had come looking for "Mr Branson" with a telegram from the ship's wireless room. On his return, Sybil mentioned the appearance on deck of the steward to Tom, who said merely it must have been another Mr Branson he had been seeking. After all, said Tom affably, Branson was a common surname in Ireland. Didn't Sybil remember that her own grandmother had said there was "… a family called Branson, with a place not far from Cork"? And seeing that Tom obviously had nothing further to say on the issue, indeed saw it of no consequence, Sybil let the matter drop. But she did not fail to notice that Tom seemed, ever more pensive, even dejected, lost in a world of his own.

Thereafter, from the comfort and vantage point of a steamer chair on the promenade deck, Sybil had sat and watched Tom for some time as, but a few feet from her, he leant over the polished teak rail, gazing down into the dark leaden waters of the Irish Sea, seemingly seeking to lose himself in their unfathomable depths. Never in all the time had they known one another had she seen Tom so tense, so preoccupied.

And, when, at last, she could stand their physical separation no longer, Sybil threw off the travelling rug Tom had wrapped about her legs, abruptly stood up and closed the short distance between them in a few brisk steps, encircled Tom with her arms, laying her head gently on his back, and asked what it was that was troubling him. Whatever it was, Sybil assured Tom, he would feel better for sharing it with her. When Tom failed to respond, Sybil placed her hands firmly on his shoulders and turned him to face her. And then, when he continued to gaze downwards towards the deck, she placed a hand under his chin and tenderly raised his face towards her.

"Hello, my darling". Try as she might, Sybil could not prevent a sudden inward gasp of breathe, seeing the obvious pain etched across Tom's features, across the tear-stained face she loved so well.

"Tom? What is it? Is it serious? Oh, my darling, it is. Tell me, please, where are you? I've never seen you like this before".

"In answer to your question … in a world that's disappearing, I am afraid". Tom shook his head sadly, burying his stricken face against her comforting shoulder, while Sybil gently caressed the back of his head, twining her fingers in his short blond hair.

Tom then seemed to recover himself somewhat. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he managed a weak smile, then mumbled something else about losing several friends on the sister ship of the Munster, the RMS Leinster, which having been torpedoed just outside Kingstown Harbour barely a month before the end of the war, had sunk very quickly with an appalling loss of life. That, reflected Sybil ruefully, was something Tom had never mentioned to her before.

But then, he had not, had he, until several months after the incident, chosen to tell her about his cousin, shot dead in Dublin by the British Army in the aftermath of the Easter Rising. And despite, indeed perhaps because of the explanation he had now just given her, notwithstanding how much they loved each other, how close they had become, how much they implicitly trusted each other, Sybil surmised that what Tom had told her, while no doubt true, was not the whole truth; was not what was really troubling him. There must be, Sybil thought, so much which as yet they did still not know about each other. Things of the past …


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Early Morning Train to Dublin

It was, in fact, less than an hour since Tom and Sybil, along with their fellow passengers, had all finally disembarked from the RMS Munster, now looking somewhat forlorn, strangely silent, and almost bereft of life, riding gently at her moorings along side the train shed on the Carlisle Pier in Kingstown Harbour. Although in truth it seemed much longer.

The departure of the Dublin bound train had been unavoidably delayed, apparently to let a late running troop special pass ahead of the timetabled service. Thereafter, having purchased their tickets from the elderly booking clerk and having seen Sybil's leather bound corded cabin trunk safely stowed in the luggage compartment, both Tom and Sybil were anxious to be off. Tom had even managed to overcome his Socialist principles and give a handsome tip to the helpful, obliging, and thereafter, extremely grateful, young porter. And now, here they were, alone at last, except for each other, seated in a musty, stuffy, gas-lit, and none too clean, third class compartment situated towards the rear of the train.

Having stowed their two suitcases and other belongings in the sagging mesh luggage rack above their heads, initially, they had each taken a window seat facing one another. However, given the fact that there was no corridor, once the train was in motion, save for anyone who might get on at any one of the handful of stations between Kingstown and Dublin, they could be sure of being left undisturbed. That being the case, taking advantage of the situation, and the unexpected privacy it afforded to them, at least for the next hour or so, Tom quickly moved to sit himself down next to Sybil.

"Excuse me, milady", he said, leaning forward towards her conspiratorially and putting on a broad Irish brogue, "do you happen t' know if that seat", he enquired of her coyly with a sly wink, sham obsequiousness and a nod in the direction of the empty space next to Sybil, "if that seat is … er, taken?"

Rising to the occasion and responding in kind to Tom's playful silliness, one of his most engaging qualities, Sybil retorted in impeccable English, that she did "happen to know" and that regrettably, sadly for him, it was already occupied. She was, she informed him, awaiting the imminent arrival of her handsome … Here Sybil paused deliberately for dramatic effect, then continued … **wealthy,** **aristocratic English **fiancé, whose immediate appearance on the scene could only, she felt sure, have been delayed by him encountering bad weather in the Irish Sea. Otherwise, he would most certainly have been here already.

"Well, this being Ireland, milady, the weather out there", Tom indicated the grey windswept ocean with a broad sweep of his hand, "is a tad unpredictable. Storms … violent storms which can last for days, weeks, months … So, that being the case, milady, you'll have to make do with me, a handsome …" here Tom himself paused for equal dramatic effect "… **poor,** **lowly** **Irishman** instead". So saying, he moved deftly across the narrow compartment and flung himself down next to her.

"You presume too much, sir, on such a short acquaintance", said Sybil, giggling with feigned outrage, fluttering her eyelids at Tom, and fanning her face with an imaginary fan.

"That, oi do, milady", but you're all alone … and such a lovely young woman", said Tom, slipping once more again into his perfect imitation of a broad Irish drawl and stifling a laugh.

"Oh, well", said Sybil, casting aside her imaginary fan with complete disdain, "I suppose I must forgive you then. After all, when one is in Rome, one should do … Or should that be when one is in Dublin?"

"Oh, in Dublin, definitely", said Tom. "After all, it's only about ten miles or so distant". His grin, by now worthy of that of a Cheshire cat, broadened still further, as Tom sat down heavily on the empty seat next to Sybil. The springs of the musty smelling upholstery, already sagging when they climbed into the compartment, screamed in impotent protest.

"Well, you certainly took your time. Tell me … are you Irish … always so slow off the mark?" asked Sybil archly.

"Ah, t' be sure, milady, indeed, that we are, especially where our social betters are concerned" said Tom tugging an imaginary forelock. "Why, oi even once heard tell of one poor sod, a chauffeur oi think he were …" Here Tom lowered his voice, assuming once again the tone of a conspirator imparting some great secret. "He was oi believe … in the employ of some stuck-up English earl. Why, oi heard tell he waited for years and years he did, for the girl he loved". Sybil giggled, imagining what her parents - her father in particular - would have made of this impudent exchange, while Tom did his best to stifle a laugh and failed miserably in the process. His resultant guffaw would, thought Sybil, if not heard in Downton, have been audible half way across Kingstown.

"And, this poor "sod" as you call him" asked Sybil, wiping back tears of laughter, "did he … Sybil paused, then, regaining her composure, asked quietly; "did he ever … gain the heart of the girl he loved so well?"Sybil gently caressed Tom's cheek with the bare fingers of her un-gloved left hand. For his part, Tom found the touch of her soft fingers on the skin of his face electrifying.

"That he did" said Tom, softly. He paused. "That **I** did". His voice became husky, almost inaudible. In the wan half light of the gas-lit compartment, he turned his face towards her, his blue eyes bright and shimmering. "God, Sybil, love, I adore you".

"Then … then show me", said Sybil, her eyes two dark limpid pools, her voice raised barely above the level of a whisper.

At her heart felt entreaty, Tom almost lost his head. Slipping his strong arms about her, he pulled Sybil close to him in a tight embrace. Instinctively Sybil's hands reached up, clasping the back of Tom's head, pulling him down towards her, running her fingers through his thick blond hair, as he in turn kissed her hair, her forehead, and her cheeks. Then finding and capturing her lips with his own, he gently parted them with the probing tip of his tongue, crushed her lips to his mouth, and kissed her with a passion which even astonished Tom himself. Sybil responded in kind to Tom's urgent need of her, with an equally pressing response of her own, which not only also surprised her, but which matched that of Tom's in both its fervour and intensity.

After what seemed an eternity, but which in reality could have been more than a few minutes, and just as they pulled apart, Tom with his collar awry, Sybil hatless, both of them breathless and flushed, their eyes sparkling, from somewhere up ahead, there came a piercing shriek from an engine's whistle. This in turn was followed by a deafening roar of escaping steam, as the engine's wheels slipped and spun helplessly on the damp rails of the harbour branch.

A moment or two later, with the engine finally having gained a grip on the greasy rails and sending up a towering column of thick black smoke in the process, there came a sudden violent jolt and the heavy train began to move slowly out from beneath the echoing cavernous roof of the harbour station at Kingstown, bound for Westland Row in the centre of Dublin. But, as the train began to pull away from the station and gather speed, it started to rain, and to rain heavily, the raindrops spraying against the grimy windows of the third class compartment with all the regularity and intensity of machine gun fire.

Whatever the weather without, inside, within their spartan compartment, the two of them were dry and warm; Tom and Sybil snuggled happily against each other, all but lost to the world, while the gas jets above their heads and on the opposite wall fizzed and spluttered. Gazing out of the carriage window, Sybil pouted and pulled a face at the awful weather. Tom grinned. "Well, what d'you expect my love? After all, this … **this is** **Ireland**!"

The train puffed on resolutely through the steadily worsening weather, pausing briefly at Seapoint, where a few passengers got off, but none got on; or, if they did, they did not make it as far down the rain swept platform as the compartment occupied by Tom and Sybil. Then came Blackrock, very good for sea bathing, said Tom who, when Sybil confessed to never having done such a thing promptly promised that when they were married, he'd bring her out from Dublin to Blackrock and show her what she had been missing. There were a couple or so more stops he said – Booterstown, Sydney Parade, and then Lansdowne Road, before the train reached the terminus at Westland Row on Cumberland Street, in the heart of Dublin.

Had it been a clear day, Tom assured Sybil that there would have been magnificent vistas to be had out to the east, across the wide expanse of the Irish Sea, now veiled from sight by the falling grey curtain of incessant rain; and also westwards, to the distant Wicklow Mountains, also hidden from view, and from where, Tom informed her, the infant River Liffey began its long seventy mile descent to the sea at Dublin. "Rode lightly down the Liffey, under Loopline Bridge", quoted Tom softly, hugging Sybil to him, while outside the rain grew even heavier.

"That's lovely. Where does it come from?" she asked of him quietly.

"I shouldn't really tell you".

Sybil looked questioningly at her fiancé.

"Why ever not?"

Tom blushed; really blushed, from the tip of his chin to the roots of his hair. In fact, it was the first time Sybil had seen him ever do so. And, somewhat surprisingly for a man who was so confident, so out-going and sometimes so maddeningly sure of himself, when he blushed, Tom somehow assumed the engaging vulnerability of a small boy.

"Well, my love, it's … it's from a novel, an Irish novel, called "Ulysses", written by a chap called Joyce … James Joyce" said Tom. "It tells of life in Dublin over one single day in June 1904. It's being serialised at the present time … in an American literary magazine - the Little Review. Mind you, I doubt your mother will have heard of it. And, if she has, I know for certain neither she nor your father would approve of me telling you about it. Your father certainly wouldn't have it on the shelves of his library at Downton. You see, Joyce's novel isn't considered respectable … some would even say it's obscene".

"That's just plain silly", said Sybil. "How can a novel, which deals with life in a modern city, be considered obscene?"

"Well, when we get to Dublin, when you've got the time, if you like, I'll read it to you, or else let you read some of it yourself and then you can make up your own mind" said Tom. "And that reminds me, I should have a look at that last piece I was writing for Sinn Féin about the way forward, as I see it, for land reform. Mind you, that wouldn't please your father either. And like "Ulysses" I don't suppose he'd give my article house room! Anyway, it's in my briefcase. Do you mind?"  
"No, not at all", said Sybil.

Tom stood up, retrieved a battered second hand black leather briefcase from out of the luggage rack above their heads, and settled himself comfortably back down on the seat next to Sybil. He had scarcely opened his briefcase, extracted a sheaf of papers from within, and was just beginning the slow process of sorting them out, laying some on the empty seat beside him, arranged in neat ordered piles, when there came the ear splitting screech of brakes being hurriedly applied, the piercing drawn out scream of a whistle, and the train came to a sudden and unexpected stop. Everything in their compartment, bags, suitcases, along with Tom's painstakingly ordered papers, went flying; while Tom and Sybil found themselves catapulted forward off from their seat, ending up in an undignified heap on the dirty floor of the grubby third class compartment.

"Jaysus, what the … Sybil, are you all right?" Tom helped Sybil slowly to her feet, gently grasping her shoulders, all the while glancing over her slight form, his sole concern at that precise moment in time being for her health and wellbeing.

"Yes, Tom, yes, I'm fine", said Sybil, brushing down her coat and skirt.

"You're not hurt?"  
"No, silly, only my dignity", laughed Sybil.

However, despite her blithe assurances, Tom continued with his attentive ministrations arising out of his obvious concern for, in equal measure, both her continued comfort and happiness.

"You don't feel dizzy, love? No aches, no pains?" He searched her face intently to see if Sybil was in any kind of discomfort. Satisfied, Tom helped her sit down again.

"Tom I'm fine, love. Really. I **am. **Your concern for me, my darling, is genuinely touching … does you credit. It truly does. But what on earth …What on earth's happened?"

"I don't know, but I damn' well intend to find out" said Tom struggling with the leather strap of the drop light. He hastily lowered the compartment window down into the tumblehome of the door and put his head out of the window, to find other passengers were doing much the same. Through the driving rain, and above the roar of steam escaping from the engine, raised voices could be heard coming from somewhere at the head of the train.

"I'm going to look", said Tom, reaching outside and grasping hold of the brass handle of the door to their compartment. "After all, it's the job of a journalist to see and report".

"Be careful, love", said Sybil anxiously. Tom grinned.

"You know me" he said.

"Yes" said Sybil ruefully. "I do; and that's **why **I'm so concerned".

"There's no need to be. Really, love, there isn't", said Tom. He grinned back at her through the open door of the carriage, as he deftly clambered out from the compartment, swung himself onto the running board and jumped down onto the ballast, setting off through the driving rain, striding purposefully towards the front of the train.

In his absence, Sybil set about setting right the chaos in their compartment, retrieving their bags and suitcase, heaving them, not without some difficulty, back into the luggage rack. She spared a brief thought for her sister Mary who, she felt sure, if she could see her youngest sister now, would have an absolute fit. Mary, Sybil felt certain, had never once in her entire privileged, spoilt life ever deigned to carry a suitcase or any other piece of luggage. Sybil could hear her now: "carry my own luggage? Don't be ridiculous, darling. That's why we employ a chauffeur".

Their luggage safely stowed again, Sybil set about gathering Tom's scattered papers from off the carriage floor and thereafter tried to set them into some semblance of order. After all, they couldn't stay where they were, and if the end result wasn't to his liking, then Tom could, she reflected, sort them out again, once he had returned to their compartment. And, it was while she was so engaged, that she came across the photograph.

To begin with, Sybil assumed it must be to do with some article upon which Tom was presently working - either for the newspaper in Dublin where he was now employed, or else for some other journal or periodical sympathetic to the cause of Irish independence.

The photograph was obviously of some age, sepia in tone, creased and slightly faded. It showed the ivy clad façade of a large four storey country house, not as large as Downton to be sure, but grand enough. A broad flight of steps swept upwards towards a four-pillared portico, above which was set an elegant Venetian window. Sybil only knew the term because there was a similar window on one of the elevations of Downton and, as a child, had heard her father refer to it as such. It had stuck in her mind because she always associated anything Venetian with canals and gondolas – and Downton possessed neither.

But it was the group of people standing on the steps in front of the portico which most attracted Sybil's gaze. A couple, seemingly in their middle years, and gathered on the uppermost step, and immediately below them, and presumably their children, stood three boys and a girl. Two of the boys and the girl appeared to be adolescents, the third boy somewhat younger, and from their clothes, and those of the couple who Sybil took to be their parents, it seemed that the photograph must have been taken about 1900, perhaps a little later.

But it was the youngest boy who arrested Sybil's attention the most. She felt her heart skip a beat, for the youngest of the four children standing proudly on the steps of the grand house was undoubtedly … Tom.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Questions and Answers

It was still raining when, about fifteen minutes later, Sybil heard familiar footsteps crunch on the ballast outside their third class compartment. A moment or two later, a smiling, and despite the appalling weather, a surprisingly dry, Tom clambered up from the side of the line, pulled open the door, and, watched by an admiring Sybil, deftly swung himself back inside the carriage. Much to Sybil's intense surprise, Tom was sporting a smart steel ribbed black umbrella, with a cane handle, which, she surmised, had kept him relatively dry from the incessant rain.

The umbrella, Tom nonchalantly informed her, had been temporarily loaned him; by the sole occupant of a First Class smoking compartment from further up the train, apparently a Dublin bound city gent, or as Tom termed him -"a ruddy foreigner from England". The umbrella had been loaned on the strict understanding that Tom would let the chap know what, if anything, he found out about what had happened and that Tom, in turn, would return the umbrella to its rightful owner when they reached the end of the line at Westland Row station. Sybil, Tom felt certain, would be glad to hear that they would be under way again very shortly.

Having vigorously shaken out the rain soaked umbrella through the still open window of their compartment, Tom furled the brolly, propped it in a corner, pulled up the droplight, fastened the leather strap and slammed shut the door.

"Miss me?" he asked of Sybil, turning his head toward her with a merry twinkle in his eye. Tom sighed contentedly, made himself comfortable, settled back on the seat next to her and pulled her close. At times, thought Sybil, Tom could be so infuriatingly pleased with himself. So, with the photograph temporarily forgotten, Sybil decided it was time to have a little fun.

"And give me one good reason why I should do anything as ridiculous as that?" asked Sybil, assuming a condescending air of mock disdain. "After all, you're just an ignorant Irishman and, in case you hadn't noticed, **this … ruddy … foreigner**"** - **she punctuated each of the three words with a sharp jab to Tom's solar plexus with her index finger - "had other things to attend to".

"Ouch, hey, stop that, it that hurts", yelled Tom in playful indignation.

"It's intended to" said Sybil, trying desperately, and then failing, to keep a straight face.

"Who taught you that little trick? Not Mary or Edith?" asked Tom grinning back at her. He had long since failed to accord either of her sisters their titles.  
"No, neither of them" giggled Sybil. "It's quite surprising … what one learns at nursing school, how to deal with difficult male patients. So, what's good enough for … how was it you once termed my charges at Downton … randy officers, wasn't it … is most certainly good enough for the likes of you! So, don't say I haven't warned you, Mr Branson".

"All right, all right", laughed Tom. "You win. Shall we declare our own Armistice? I can **see **you've been busy. I'm very, very much impressed" said Tom, taking stock of the now tidied state of their compartment.

Sybil settled back against the hard unyielding upholstery, with Tom's warm protective arm held tightly around her. She snuggled closer against him, enjoying the intimacy of the moment, inhaling the clean scent of his masculinity, his musk mixed with carbolic soap and … There was something else. Not engine oil, she had smelt that on him many times before. But, this time there was something else, a faint odour about him that she had smelt somewhere before, that she knew she should recognise, but at that precise moment couldn't quite identify …

"Tom, love … what's that … whatever is that smell?

"Cordite, or something like it I expect … from the explosion" said Tom, as calmly and as casually as if he had been talking to her about changing whatever it was he changed on the Renault in the garage back at Downton. Sybil thought fleetingly of Edith - who with her knowledge of motors would have known precisely of what it was she was thinking.

"**Explosion?**" Sybil sounded utterly appalled. In fact, she **was appalled**. More than that, she was **horrified**. Abruptly, she pulled away from Tom, causing him to turn and regard her quizzically.

Ignoring his look of faint amusement, and putting her training as a nurse to good effect, Sybil began a gentle, but thorough, search of him. Cupping Tom's face with her hands, gently, through his clothes, she felt his upper body, his shoulders, arms, elbows, chest, taking hold of his hands with her own, searching for the smallest sign of any injury. Much as Tom had done to her when they had been thrown off their seats when the train came so unexpectedly to a sudden stop. She had, she recalled, done the same many times to wounded soldiers in her charge, but never had that contact produced the feeling, which her close physical contact with Tom produced in her now. But, ironically, it was that reflection which stirred in her memory where she had smelt the odour, which she could now smell on Tom. It had been when she had been cutting off the uniforms and clothing of soldiers caught in shell blasts.

"Satisfied?" asked Tom with a merry twinkle in his eye. "Or do you want me to undress, Nurse Crawley?" he said softly.

Sybil flushed. The very thought of Tom …

"So, what … what happened?" Sybil asked, trying to avoid Tom's searching gaze, and at the same time frantically, grabbing hold of his arms.

"Well. You remember why we were delayed leaving Kingstown … the late-running troop special?"

Sybil nodded dumbly.

"Well, some blasted fools, presumably from somewhere close to Booterstown - it's the next station up the line from here - made an attempt, not a very good one mind you, to blow up the railway bridge just north of here. Apparently, those involved weren't that used to handling explosives, the charge went off after the troop special passed through and most of the blast - I walked up the line to have a look at the damage - went down and not up, so there's not that much harm done. I once told you that I don't condone violence. And while I want the British and their army out of Ireland as much as anyone, and the sooner the better, for all our sakes, something like this, if it had succeeded, would have led to reprisals and needless loss of life on both sides. The sad fact is, I'm sure it won't be the last time that something like this happens. In fact, from what I've been hearing, I expect things will get a great deal worse before all of this gets sorted out".

Sybil seemed not to be paying the slightest regard to what he was saying, continuing to touch him, to reassure herself that he was uninjured.

"Sybil, love ...," said Tom. Firmly, but gently, he grasped hold of her wrists with his hands. "I'm not made of china. I'm fine, really I am," he said softly, sub consciously echoing her words to him from but a short while ago. "See, no harm done".

"**No harm done**? But when I think ..." Her voice faltered.

"Then don't think" said Tom, pulling Sybil close to him and kissing the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.

Through a veil of softly falling tears, Sybil gazed up at Tom, at his well-loved face, her fingers gently grasping, kneading, and plucking at the lapels of his jacket in her continuing attempt to assure herself that, despite his very real presence here alongside her, he was truly all right.

"You said ... you said ... you adored me". Her voice was very faint, indistinct, in fact little more than a hushed whisper.

Tom nodded. "So I did. And I meant it. Each and every word".

Sybil stifled a deep sob.

"And I you. Tom ... love, you mean everything to me. Oh my darling. I don't think I realised, just how much ... until you mentioned ... The thought of you being caught up in that explosion ..."  
"Hush now" said Tom, a faint grin playing about his lips, which gradually broadened into a smile.

"Don't make fun of me". Sybil pouted, batting Tom's chest with the palms of her hands.

"I'm not, my love. Truly, I'm not. I was just thinking ..."  
"Thinking what?"

"About the complete incongruousness of it all".

"How so?"

"Well, just think. All those years we spent at Downton; the arguments, the furtive discussions, the silly misunderstandings, then realisation slowly dawning for both of us, finding out how each felt about the other?"  
"You mean, about how ... how we loved each other. Use the word Tom, it's not one of which to be ashamed. I felt sure you of all people would realise that". Sybil smiled weakly at him.

Tom grinned back at her.

"Touché my love. I'm certainly not ashamed of the word, my darling, as well you know. All right then. Finding out how we **loved **... love each other. There we were, despite all the draw backs, surrounded by all that Downton had to offer us; each other, all that beauty, all that privileged way of life - well, at least for some milady". Tom chuckled.

Then he became serious again. "And until the war came along, all of us, you, your parents, Mary, Edith, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, all of us below stairs, yes, even me my love, all of us safely cocooned from the world outside the estate. And here we are now ... I mean, just look at us ..." Tom glanced expressively round the dimly lit compartment "... in a filthy dirty, third class carriage on the Dublin and South Eastern Railway. In the middle of the Irish countryside, in the pouring rain, in the aftermath of an explosion, and it is only now that we both finally realise what we mean to each other".

Sybil glanced about her, at their shabby surroundings. "Yes, my darling, I do begin to see what you mean!" she conceded. And then it was Sybil's turn to laugh.

A moment or two later and there came a long shrill blast from the engine's whistle, there was a slight jolt, and the train began to inch forward at a snail's pace, resuming its interrupted journey. It passed slowly over the damaged bridge. Despite the rain, the strong smell of cordite still hung in the sodden air. A group of rain-soaked gangers from the railway company, watched over by armed officers from the Royal Irish Constabulary, and, from below the arch of the bridge, down on the road, by soldiers in an armoured car, began the slow task of clearing away the debris and making good the damage resulting from the failed explosion.

A short while later, albeit somewhat later than intended, the train, wreathed in steam and spray from the incessant rain, rolled in under the iron and glass arched roof of the station at Westland Row, and drew gently to a stop alongside Platform 1, in the heart of the bustling city of Dublin beside the Liffey river.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

In Dublin's Fair City

Sybil would, Tom assured her, find Dublin - presently (if not for much longer) the second city of the British Empire - to be a city of contradictions and immense contrasts. It was something, which everyone arriving for the first time in Dublin, whether from the surrounding countryside or from further afield, whether from elsewhere in Ireland or from abroad, noticed. It was something too, with which Sybil would have to come to terms very quickly.

And, before her very eyes, Tom vividly brought to life the city in which Sybil had now come to live.

He described the balls and lavish dinners given at Dublin Castle, the focal point of British rule in Ireland, along with the fashionable clubs on St. Stephen's Green, as well as the fine civic buildings. Here Tom mentioned the National Museum on Kildare Street and the Reading Room of the National Library, both of which, along with Marsh's Library in St. Patrick's Close, he knew well - which, of course, came as no particular surprise to Sybil.

There were beautiful parks such as the Botanic Gardens in Glasnevin, and, perhaps the most beautiful of them all, Phoenix Park situated in the west of the city, where they could stroll and saunter at their leisure, time and the weather permitting. Then there were leafy fashionable suburbs such as Blackrock, Monkstown and Rathmines, where one day they might live. There were theatres too, such as the Royal on Hawkins Street, the Tivoli, and even cinemas. The latter included the Volta which stood on the appropriately named Mary Street and to which, on hearing Sybil confess that she had never visited a picture house, Tom promised to take her, after they were married.

As an aside, Tom took great delight in telling Sybil that Mary Street itself was situated in one of the less fashionable parts of the city. Sybil retorted that would never do. When Mary and Edith came over to Dublin for their wedding in a month or so, Sybil could well imagine her eldest sister descending on the Dublin Corporation like one of the avenging Furies of Ancient Greece. Sybil had no doubt that Mary would imperiously demand of the civic authorities that the name of Mary Street be changed or else the area through which it ran be smartened up - immediately.

Given Mary's almost hysterical opposition to the whole idea of their marriage, and some of the more unpleasant remarks she had made about Tom prior to their departure for Ireland, Sybil had ceased to defend her eldest sister from Tom's jibes. Sybil had long since come to realise that what Mary knew of life outside the gilded world of Downton Abbey could be inscribed on the head of a pin. That said, she loved her sister dearly, and also knew, that if the truth be told, both Tom and Mary had a sneaking regard the one for the other. That if only both of them, equally stubborn in their own ways, could be made to see the wood for the trees, then they had every chance of getting along tolerably well.

But, alongside all the wealth and comfortable living there existed another side to Dublin.

The filthy, overcrowded, disease-ridden tenements north of the River Liffey, such as Henrietta Street, those which lay off the main thoroughfares, or else along the quays, teeming with disease, malnourished children, where life was desperate and precarious, where deprivation, poverty, and unemployment were an accepted part of daily life for those forced to live in such abject squalor.

Tom told Sybil that he had visited streets where, because of the unsanitary conditions, life expectancy for children was cruelly short. Where infant mortality was appalling, and where if disease and illness didn't kill you, then the sudden collapse of a tenement building, many of which were in an appalling state of disrepair, would undoubtedly do the job just as well. But as Tom readily conceded, such iniquitous inequalities could be found in any large city - London included - even if it still remained the case that in Dublin there were to be found the worst housing conditions of any city anywhere in Great Britain. It was at this moment that Sybil blanching at Tom's vivid description, stopped eating, resorting to merely toying with the small amount of food remaining on her plate, and stared down at the table.

At this precise point in time, Sybil and Tom were just finishing a welcome lunch. After all they had had nothing to eat since a hurried breakfast on the Munster several hours earlier, and were now sitting taking their ease in Bewleys, a café which Tom knew, on Westmoreland Street, just round the corner from Westland Row station.

After their late arrival in Dublin, having first reunited the English city gent in the First Class smoker with his umbrella, Tom sought out one of the bevy of uniformed railway porters, who met their train on Platform 1. Having satisfied himself that Sybil's trunk would indeed be delivered by horse drawn carrier the very next day to the address Tom had written down, both Tom and Sybil left the station.

They set off along Cumberland Street, heading north for the O'Connell Bridge over the River Liffey to catch an electric tram from Sackville Street out to Tom's mother's house in the Clontarf district of the city. Fortunately, the rain had finally ceased and a pale, wan sun set in a grey cloudy sky shone weakly down over the bustling metropolis. But, before they had gone very far, the savoury smells wafting out onto the street from several eating houses assailed their nostrils, making them both painfully aware that it was several hours since they had had anything to eat.

"Hungry, my love?" asked Tom.

"Most definitely" said Sybil. "Ah that smell. It's delicious". She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "That ... that puts me in mind of Mrs. Patmore. And the kitchen back at Downton on baking day".

"Well, it's surprising how good rat can smell. Baked or stewed, but from personal experience, I have to say, stewed is best" said Tom with a mischievous grin.

"Stewed **rat**?" said Sybil aghast. "What the ..." then catching sight of his face, "Tom you're joking".

"Of course I am" said Tom with a laugh. "But I'm sure Mary thinks that's what we eat over here - that and boiled potatoes, all of us living in our one room slums, breeding like rabbits, plotting the downfall of the British Empire. Don't forget, you told me some of the choicer comments she made about me and Ireland. And when she and Edith come over for our wedding, for sheer devilment, I might take her out to tea in the Coombe area of the city – just to confirm her views of Dublin and the Irish".

"Why, is it that bad?" asked Sybil, genuinely interested.

Tom nodded.

"One of the worst districts in the city, but then I expect Mary doesn't even realise that London has its share of slums. There can't be many of those near your family's town house, I'll be bound".

Sybil, having put all thoughts of rat, baked or stewed, from out of her mind, continued to sniff the savoury smells wafting around them.

"My love, you most decidedly have a very fine nose" said Tom with a grin. "Come on, I know just the place where we can get something to eat -it's close by, on Westmoreland Street, just along from Trinity College, and isn't at all expensive. It might not be quite what you've been used to when dining out up in London, but you'll always find a warm welcome at Bewleys. Moreover the food is excellent and when I last ate there, there wasn't a rat in sight".

And indeed, Bewleys proved to be just as good as Tom had said it would be.

After their meal, laughing and joking, Tom and Sybil crossed over the Liffey by way of the O'Connell Bridge - Tom remarking with a wink to Sybil that the bridge also had been once named for the same Lord Lieutenant of Ireland who had given his name to the pier at Kingstown. They had just crossed the bridge and reached the southern end of Sackville Street, when Tom stopped abruptly and set down their two cases on the pavement.

Ahead of them, dominated by the towering Nelson Pillar, stretched Sackville Street, one of the city's most bustling thoroughfares, lined with expensive shops, public buildings, the luxurious Metropole Hotel and the General Post Office which adjoined it. But the scene which greeted Tom and Sybil on that June morning in 1919 was one of utter devastation.

As far as their eyes could see, on either side of Sackville Street, stretched the burnt out, blackened ruins of all manner of buildings. These shattered, silent sentinels bore mute testimony to the savagery of the fighting, which had taken place here but three years before during the Easter Rising in 1916. On one side, heavily out-numbered, hurriedly trained, and poorly equipped, had been those seeking to establish a free and independent Ireland. On the other, the British Army with its unlimited supplies of munitions and soldiers, the latter well disciplined and provisioned, fighting with an equal determination to keep Ireland as part of the British Empire and as one of the possessions of the British Crown.

As part of this violent confrontation, having come up against unexpectedly dogged and determined resistance, and to flush out their opponents holed up in the General Post Office, the British Army had resorted to the use of heavy artillery, here in the very heart of Dublin .The result was all too predictable, and the casualty rate, on both sides, appalling.

"Jaysus, will you look at this. Sybil, will y' just look! Look at what those bastards have done! I knew it had been bad over here, but to see it ... like this ..." Overcome with emotion, and having given vent, for him, to an uncharacteristic outburst of profanity at what now confronted them, Tom sat down abruptly on a shattered piece of masonry, his head in his hands, and wept.

While at that precise point in time, Dublin had no claim on Sybil's loyalty, to see the man she loved so deeply so overcome with grief, at that very moment, Sybil's heart went out to Tom. Heedless of the looks of other passers-by, not caring a fig for what her aristocratic family would have made of such a public show of emotion, Sybil knelt down on the rubble strewn pavement of Sackville Street, and put her arms about Tom's neck, holding him close, much as she had done on the deck of the Munster.

After a while, Tom's tears ceased to fall. Cupping his chin gently in her hands, Sybil raised his tear-stained face to hers, said simply:

"I know what you have seen today pains you my love, but this ... this was yesterday. We, my darling, are the future. Come, let's go and find the tram, and meet your family".


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The Changeling

Clontarf, explained Tom, as the green and white painted open topped tramcar of the Dublin United Tram Company rattled and clanged its way along Route 30 through the bustling cobbled streets of Dublin, lay on the coast, on the north side of the city, now a suburb, was originally a small village.

They had boarded the Clontarf bound tram at Nelson's Pillar and taken seats on the upper deck of the tramcar, so that Sybil could see much more of the city than would have been immediately visible had they stayed down below. This was despite, or perhaps because of, Tom pointing out to Sybil that many people still considered it highly improper for a lady to be seen riding on the open upper deck of a tramcar. Sybil rising to the occasion had said that since she was but a "ruddy foreigner", an ignorant English girl, and no lady, such a ridiculous notion could do what little reputation she still possessed no harm whatsoever. Besides which, she had Tom there to protect her. Tom pithily observed that he felt certain that she would be more than a match for anyone, man or woman, who dared to question the propriety of her riding on the top of a tramcar and would have no need whatsoever of any paltry protection he could afford to her.

After a short while, they reached Clontarf, and got off the tram near the sea front. By now the sun had fully broken through the grey murk which had persisted since it had stopped raining and the afternoon promised to be bright and sunny. For now, at least, white clouds scudded across an azure sky, driven on by a strong south-easterly wind blowing in from off the sea, whipping up the breakers on the shore.

The tide was out, and down below them, children played on the beach, scrambling among the rock pools. One of them, a fair haired young boy running along the strand with a brightly coloured kite streaming out behind him, caught Sybil's eye. As she watched, the kite soared away up into the vast expanse of sky above. From his expression, the young boy was obviously enjoying himself immensely.

"I used to do that" said Tom, his arm around Sybil's shoulders, gazing down on the carefree scene below them.

Sybil smiled, picturing Tom as a small boy.

"Did you? Down there, on the beach?"" she asked.

"Tom paused."Yes" he said. ""I did; that and other things".

Tom, thought Sybil, had sounded wistful. He certainly looked somewhat lost. Or was it that he was …

"_Come" said the girl gently. The young boy paused; looked hesitantly up at her. She smiled. "There's nothing to be frightened of". He looked quizzically back at her. Sensing his trepidation, his innate wariness, she helped him to his feet from off the short greensward at the top of the cliff. _

"_But if he should ..."_

"_He won't. Trust me"._

_She smiled again. _

"_And there really isn't anything to fear, truly". _

_The timbre of her voice was still gentle, but now had a keener, insistent edge to it. "We have an hour or so; no more". As if to reinforce the fact, she was already slipping his jacket from off his shoulders, beginning to unbutton his waistcoat, as she put her arm about his hunched shoulders, and led him down the narrow, steep path towards the distant cottage on the shore_.

Tom was now staring out to sea, beyond the children on the beach, beyond the small steamer in the middle distance, to somewhere seemingly far beyond the distant horizon, much as he had done earlier in the day, by the ship's rail on the deck of the Munster. It was with that scene foremost in her mind that Sybil reached up and kissed him gently, almost chastely.

"Tom, my darling, wherever it is you are when you look like that, let me bring you back". Tom turned and looked at her. She gasped as a strange expression flitted across his face, at one and the same time both contemplative and bitter. And there were tears in his eyes too.

"If only you could, my darling", he said. "If only you could. But now my love, are you ready?"  
"Ready as I'll ever be" said Sybil. "So long as you're with me".

"Have no fear of that, my darling. I'm here with you now ... and for always" said Tom, his eyes bright and shining.

It was odd, but it was only now that Sybil had begun to feel somewhat anxious. Despite Tom's repeated assurances both at Downton and on the sea-crossing that Ma, Ciaran, Donal and Emer - his mother, brothers and sister - were all looking forward to meeting her, that had all been in the future. Now that she was faced with what, for a long time, had been but a remote prospect, becoming a reality, and in a very short space of time too, Sybil began to feel extremely nervous about her imminent first encounter with the Bransons.

Tom had done his very best to set her mind at her ease by telling her all about his family. And now, he did so again, as they walked along the sea front towards the house for which they were bound.

"That's it over there" said Tom. Unable to point - he was carrying both their cases - he simply nodded towards a neat, white washed, two-storey, slate roofed villa, about a quarter of a mile distant, one of a pair, and which faced the open sea. A piebald horse in the shafts of a brightly painted waggonette stood tethered to the railings in front of the house, and placidly cropped the nearby grass.

Of course, Tom had spoken of his family to her many times before, but if Sybil was honest, until now, despite Tom's ability to conjure up people and places with his vivid descriptions of both, whether spoken or written, his family had just been a series of names to her - and Irish names at that. There was Ciaran, the eldest, a tenant farmer on the nearby Clontarf Castle estate. He was married to Aislin and they had a whole brood of children, three boys and two girls. Then there was Donal, a clerk with the Guiness Brewery. He was married to Niamh and living across Dublin in Rathmines. They had two children, a boy and a girl. And lastly there was Emer. She had been in service, apparently in a position similar to that held by Anna back at Downton. She too was married, but as yet, her and her husband, Peadar, a young draughtsman with the Great Southern and Western Railway in Dublin, had no children. They lived in Glasthule.

Tom had rattled off their names and the places where they all lived once again on the tram on their way out to Clontarf. He laughed as Sybil made another concerted attempt not only to try and remember them all but also to repeat them out loud, twisting her tongue round the unfamiliar Irish names. When Sybil became frustrated, stumbling over her pronouncement of "Ciaran" for the umpteenth time, and asked crossly why they couldn't have been given normal names like everybody else, Tom had just laughed.

"What do you expect, love? By normal, I take it you mean English? We can't all be called Robert or Matthew or for that matter, Mary, Edith or Sybil. As for their names being Irish, well, **they **are Irish!"

"But you're Irish and your Christian name isn't Irish!" countered Sybil with what to her seemed eminently good sense and was something with which even Tom could not disagree. But as so often, he surprised her.

"I don't count. I'm ... different. I'm a changeling" said Tom and laughed. "Anyway, don't try to remember all their names now, my love. Time enough for that later. It's **you** they all want to meet".

And so indeed it was.

A few moments later brought them to the house. Having opened the low wrought iron gate for her, Tom let Sybil pass through. Then, having shut it, he swiftly followed, close behind. With slightly faltering footsteps, Sybil walked up the short narrow path. She gave a nervous backward glance over her shoulder, just to make sure Tom was still there. He was, smiling encouragement, his overwhelming love for her plain for all to see. Sybil passed a pocket handkerchief patch of salt bleached grass and made her way towards the green painted front door with its two panes of frosted glass.

They had reached the door.

Tom set down their cases in the small tiled front porch. He lifted the heavy cast iron knocker, and rapped hard on the door. Beyond it, Sybil heard the sound of excited voices, of rapidly approaching footsteps. Never had she felt this nervous. Not even when she had appeared, dressed in the height of fashion, be-jewelled enough to dazzle even the most jaded eye, at the head of the main staircase of her Aunt Rosamund's house in London, at the reception given there by her parents to mark her eighteenth birthday. A lifetime ago, or so it seemed, and given for someone else entirely. Not for her. But for a girl from a different world.

The front door swung open to reveal, not a line of silent, inscrutable, outwardly respectful servants, but a sea of smiling faces, and Sybil found herself and Tom rapidly pulled inside on a genuinely heartfelt tide of welcome. If she had been nervous about meeting Tom's family, she need not have been. Nothing could have prepared Sybil for the warmth of the reception which the two of them received in the hallway of that small house in Clontarf.

Thereafter, the next few minutes certainly, the next hour, perhaps longer, Sybil lost all sense of time, passed in a blur. A blur of faces, of introductions being made, of endless cups of tea and plates of bread and butter, of questions posed and answers given - in Dublin ("Dubbelin" as Tom had taught her to say) - accented English. Of hugs and kisses, and demonstratively affectionate greetings for them both. Looking back, Sybil was to remember all that, when the world she knew was dissolving about her, amidst the staccato sound of gunfire, harsh shouts, and the roar of flames.

One detail of that afternoon, Sybil would always recall. And, indeed, remembered, to the very end of her life.

Someone, possibly Ciaran, perhaps it was Donal called out:  
"Ma, they're here, come see!"

The welcoming throng of adults and children parted, to reveal, standing at the foot of a narrow staircase, in an equally narrow hallway, a small woman, dressed entirely in black, with grey hair and piercing blue eyes, which reminded Sybil immediately of Tom. His mother. After all, it could be no one else.

"So", the woman said, simply, "_**you're**_ Tommy's Sybil". And smiled a smile of singular sweetness. "Come in, and welcome, sure. You must both be very tired".

From behind her, over her shoulder, Sybil heard Tom's voice.

"Hello, Ma. Missed me?"  
"What d' you t'ink? Here, Tommy, come and greet me as you used to!"

And she opened her arms wide.

To him.

To them both.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Fireside Chat

Their luggage having been taken upstairs for them by two of Ciaran and Aislin's young sons, both fighting for the privilege of carrying "the lady's case". Sybil was shown where she would be sleeping until after she and Tom were married - in Emer's old room, with Tom just across the landing from her in his - no separate bachelor wing here - "but no hanky-panky" either was Tom's mother's genial warning to them both.

Later, shortly after Ciaran, Aislin, and their brood set off in the waggonette and headed back to the farm - Ciaran and the boys had chores to attend to - Donal, Niamh and their family also left - on the tram back into Dublin. They had to leave early on account of the service back into the city being disrupted, because of yet further trouble. Exactly what was left unsaid. Probably, thought Sybil, to spare her feelings. In any event, it would have been impossible to find seats for everyone, around the small table in the kitchen at the back of the house.

After that, with only Emer and Peadar left downstairs, along with Tom and Ma, quietness descended once more upon the small house by the sea. And Sybil had time, at her leisure, to unpack her suitcase, to wash before supper, and to collect her thoughts.

A short while later, found Sybil, simply dressed, sitting quietly on her bed, her hands placed calmly in her lap.

Her thoughts were, predictably, of course, of all that had happened since their arrival here in Ireland … and of Tom. Dear God, how she loved him. Why, he was even dearer to her than life itself. He had only to look at her, to touch her, to smile at her across a crowded room - as he had done downstairs earlier that afternoon, while she was engaged fending off questions from Niall - Ciaran and Aislin's youngest - and she was suffused with desire. Why had she not realised the depth of her feelings for him earlier? If only she had then …

There came a gentle knock at her bedroom door. Jumping up and opening it, Sybil found herself fact to face … with a dapper smiling Tom.

Of course, such a thing would never have happened at Downton. After all, no gentleman would have dared to presume to present himself at the bedroom door of an unmarried lady. And if she were married, the only male of the species that could do such a thing - without risking the lady's reputation - would be her husband. No less a paragon of virtue than Mary herself had lectured Sybil on that particular point of social etiquette … and, as Sybil recalled, at some length.

Tom was freshly scrubbed, his face shining, his hair neatly combed - oh how Sybil longed to run her hands through it - sporting a fresh collar to his shirt and looking once again like the cat which had swallowed the cream.

"Jaysus, but you're beautiful" he said softly. He leaned in for a kiss, to which Sybil responded passionately, her arms about Tom's neck, and with an ardour to match his own. Mindful of Ma's earlier warning, reluctantly, they broke apart. Was Sybil ready, Tom asked jauntily, to go downstairs to supper? He then made a great play of offering Sybil his arm.

"Would you do me the singular honour of accompanying me into dinner, milady" Tom asked with a grin, and in a tone which suggested he was about to escort her into the elegant dining room at Downton.

Sybil laughed, said she was indeed ready, and happily linking arms with him, assured Tom, that the honour was all hers. As they walked the short distance across the narrow landing to the head of the stairs a savoury smell assailed their nostrils.

"That smells delicious" said Sybil.

"Irish stew. I told you earlier, didn't I, that you had a fine nose?" laughed Tom. "Well, don't ever tell her I said so, but not even Mrs. Patmore could beat Ma's cooking".

Of course, they had to separate when negotiating the narrow stairs, but they linked arms again at the foot of the staircase, as Tom escorted Sybil into the kitchen, where Emer and Peadar, who were staying the night with friends in Clontarf, along with Tom's mother, were gathered.

The meal was excellent.

And in spite of, or even perhaps because of the cramped surroundings and the simplicity of the food, Sybil could not recall a more convivial occasion.

Perhaps a comparison with the evening meals she was used to at Downton before the war and then again, with the conflict over and her nursing duties finished was a little unfair. After all, dinner at Downton, whether or not her parents had guests, was always such a grand occasion; a formal affair, in every sense of the word. Of course, Carson would be pompously in attendance, while everyone would be at pains to be on their very best behaviour, dressed in their finest clothes. Sybil's father would hold forth on some subject or other and if there were suitable unattached male guests her mother would be trying to match make, while granny bemoaned what she saw as the latest decline in social standards. The conversation formal and stilted, the ladies withdrawing discretely after the meal had ended to leave the gentleman - usually just her father and Cousin Matthew - to the port and their cigars.

There was none of that here, just a warm welcome, plain simple cooking, with everyone seated round the scrubbed deal table doing their very utmost to draw Sybil into the constant chatter and make her feel part of this happy family.

During supper, it transpired that Ciaran and his wife were expecting all of the family, Tom and Sybil included, out at their farm for a celebratory meal on Sunday, to mark Tom's return, and Sybil's arrival in Ireland. Thereafter, of course, both Tom and Sybil would have much to do. Tom was starting work in earnest at the paper on Monday. As for Sybil, armed with letters of introduction from her time spent at the military nursing school in York, from Dr. Clarkson, and from a matron at the Ripon Camp Military Hospital, where Sybil had worked briefly before Downton became a convalescent home, she had various interviews to attend at several hospitals in Dublin. Moreover, there was the small matter of arranging their wedding.

Later, after supper was over, after the dishes had been cleared away and washed by Emer and by Sybil, Peadar asked Tom if he would like to join him and a couple of his pals down at Murphy's bar. Tom asked Sybil if she minded and when she said she did not, explained that, much as he would dearly loved to take her with him, women were not admitted to bars in Ireland. At that Sybil laughed. It was she said probably for the best that she stayed here with Ma. After all, she had flouted one social convention already that day, by riding on the top of the tram out to Clontarf. Besides which, it would give Sybil an ideal opportunity to get to know Tom's mother better.

"And mind you don't come back drunk" said Sybil, having kissed Tom goodbye on the doorstep.

"Now you pay heed to what she says, Tommy Branson" called Ma from the hallway behind her. "And, if you don't, my lad, you'll be sleeping it off in the coal house!"

Mrs. Branson had confided to Sybil that the late Mr. Branson, a joiner by trade, had done just that on several occasions. Tom had said very little about his father, beyond a passing reference that suggested that he was but recently deceased. If the late Mr. Branson had had a tendency to have been taken in liquor, perhaps Tom felt ashamed, so his reticence to talk about his late father was understandable.

"All right, Ma, I will. Don't fuss!" said Tom, with a broad wink to Sybil. With a lingering backward glance, Tom set off down the front path, hastening to catch up with Emer and Peadar. He reached the gate, blew Sybil a kiss, turned the corner, and was gone.

Feeling slightly deflated, Sybil came inside and shut the front door.

"Never mind dear, he won't be out that long. Not when he has you to come home to," said Mrs. Branson, putting a comforting arm around Sybil's shoulders. "Come, we'll be better off by the fire".

Sybil sat with Mrs. Branson, the one opposite the other, on either side of the fireplace, in the snug front room. A peaceful stillness descended on the lamp lit room. While the fire burned lower and lower, all fell silent, save for the distant ebb and flow of the sea, and the sound of Sybil's calm voice as she told Mrs. Branson simply, and with no trace of conceit, of her life, growing up at Downton. Of her volunteering to serve as a nurse during the war, of how she and Tom had become friends and of how that friendship had burgeoned into love. Sybil left nothing out. She recounted her feelings honestly and openly, at all their various stages. She spoke at length of her parents, and of her sisters, of Mary and Edith".

"Ah, Edith; the middle one. Tom never wrote me much about her in his letters - apart from saying that he had taught her to drive," said Mrs. Branson. "After all, his letters were mostly about you". Here, Sybil blushed furiously, hoping that Mrs. Branson wouldn't notice, or if she did, that she put down Sybil's high colour to the warmth from the rapidly dying fire - which was unlikely since the fire had by now burned down to little more than a few glowing embers. "But he did make several ... references to your eldest sister" .Evidently Mrs. Branson had heard a very great deal about Mary - and from the way she spoke, and the look on Mrs. Branson's face, none of what Tom had written to her about Sybil's eldest sister had been complimentary.

"... and you love young Tommy very much, don't you my dear?"  
"He means everything to me," said Sybil.

It seemed passing strange to Sybil, but then, on reflection, not strange at all, that she could be so open with this quiet, soft spoken, grey haired woman. Someone she, yet, scarcely knew. Sybil could never imagine for a moment discussing her feelings for Tom so openly with her own parents.

As for Tom telling her parents of his love for their youngest daughter, as Mary had so aptly once said, Papa was more than likely to call in the police. That, or else arrange a mysterious midnight disappearance of Tom from off the estate. Not that Papa would resort to murder. He was far too honourable to do that. However, come the morning, Tom would undoubtedly simply have vanished from Downton, never to darken the doors of the estate again, his name never to be mentioned except in hushed whispers, appalled in tone - "the nameless Irish chauffeur who had got so far above himself as to think he could marry a daughter of the house". Therefore, it seemed only right to Sybil that she dealt honestly and openly with this kindly woman sitting before her.

"... and I'm very glad to hear it, my dear. After all that he ..." Mrs. Branson paused, shook her head, and wiped away a stray tear.

"Mrs. Branson, why, whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing ... really". The older woman sniffed, held Sybil's gaze and smiled gently at her. "Don't mind me, my dear. It's nothing. I expect it's just the joy of seeing them all together under this roof once again. That hasn't happened ... in a very long time. Scattered to the four winds, all of them ... and Tommy too.

"And ..." here Sybil faltered. How could she ... should she ... phrase the question she wanted to ask? In the end, it seemed best to ask it simply and concern herself afterwards with any offence, which she might have given. "And, Tom's father?"

"He died." was Mrs. Branson's laconic reply. "Now my dear, I expect you must be very tired. Tommy won't be back for a while yet. Here, let me show you to your room".

"There's no need, really, but thank you. Emer showed it me earlier. I can find my own way up".

"Very well, my dear. Then goodnight to you".

"Goodnight"".

Sybil made her way slowly up the narrow staircase, deep in thought. Yet, it was only when she had washed, undressed, turned out the lamp, and settled down in bed for the night in the quiet silence of the simply furnished bedroom, that she realised what it was that had been bothering her. About the photographs she had seen and been shown that afternoon, clustered on the walls, and atop the carved credenza in Mrs. Branson's front room.

There were, to be sure, photographs of the whole family, of Mr. and Mrs. Branson, of Ciaran, Donal, and Emer, even of Tom lounging on the beach at Clontarf, on his own, with Ciaran, with Donal, acting the fool with Emer. And, of course, there was the photograph of Tom standing proudly in his chauffeur's uniform in front of the Renault outside the garage at Downton. Sybil recalled Tom mentioning to her that he had had his photograph taken at Downton by a photographer from a studio in Ripon.

Nevertheless, while there were also photographs of Ciaran, Donal and Emer as children, there was not one, unless Sybil had overlooked it, not even one, that she could recall seeing, of Tom as a young boy. And why, when Mrs. Branson had spoken of her children being scattered to the four winds, had she said, almost, as an afterthought, or so it had seemed to Sybil at the time, "... and Tommy too"?" Moreover, why also when she had been speaking of her late husband's drinking escapades had she referred to him as "Mr. Branson". That after all was his name, but in the context in which she had made the remark, the words "Tom's father" would have seemed rather more appropriate.

Tired out after the long journey, and by all she and Tom had gone through that day, Sybil soon fell asleep. But it was not to be a dreamless sleep, for while she slept, pictures came to her, of the mysterious ivy clad house in the photograph she had found among Tom's papers on the train, of Tom and her back at Downton, then walking arm in arm on the deck of the Munster, of Tom and her in Sackville Street. There were also images of Ciaran, Donal, and Emer, caught, as they must once have been, dark haired children, running carefree across the seastrand at Clontarf.

But of young, fair-haired Tom there was no sign; none whatever.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Letters from Home

For Sybil and Tom, the next few weeks passed in an enjoyable haze of welcome activity for both of them, individually and jointly. Tom began work at the offices of the Irish Independent on Talbot Street in the heart of the city, while Sybil dutifully trudged round the hospitals seeking gainful employment.

Of course, from the very outset, the numerous small hospitals long established in every corner of Dublin and run by the religious orders, including the Mater on Eccles Street, which while conveniently situated for Sybil lying as it did on the north side of the city was administered by the Catholic Sisters of Mercy, were, in effect, closed to her. This was because of her Protestant background. That notwithstanding, as Sybil found out very quickly, the growing agitation for independence from Great Britain, the worsening political ferment in Ireland, and the increasing resort to violence on both sides, one to achieve independence, the other to prevent it happening, being English did nothing to help her cause, irrespective of her nursing experience and qualifications.

In fact, as Tom explained to her one evening towards sunset, while they were walking arm in arm along the sea strand at Clontarf after supper, the setting up of the First Dáil or Irish Parliament at the Mansion House in January 1919, but a matter of months before their arrival here in Ireland had exacerbated an already tense stand-off. The Dáil's members had proceeded to re-affirm the declaration of independence made in 1916 and to announce that there was now an "existing state of war, between Ireland and England" and reconstituted the Irish Volunteer force as the Irish Republican Army. While both acts were understandable, they simply added fuel to the flames and outraged the British administration based at Dublin Castle.

As Tom observed, the powder was laid. All that had remained was for someone to light the fuse. And in January 1919 this happened, when almost at the same time that the First Dáil was proclaimed, over in County Tipperary, two members of the Irish Republican Army, shot dead two officers of the Royal Irish Constabulary.

Politics and violence apart, Tom admired Sybil's dogged perseverance to realise her cherished goal of becoming a working woman. His pride in her knew no bounds, when ultimately, her stoical determination paid off, and Sybil secured a position as a nurse at the Coombe Lying-In Hospital founded to serve the sick and poor in the crowded area of the Liberties in the heart of the city. As Tom had told her, the area in which the hospital stood was one of the most deprived in the whole of Dublin.

Despite the exhaustingly long hours at the hospital, which often meant that Sybil came home worn out, her tiredness did not prevent her growing desperately, and understandably, more and more concerned for Tom's safety. Her fears were not fanciful. After all, the Irish Republican Army, angered by what it perceived as criticism of its actions had already threatened to destroy the Independent's printing presses. No doubt, they would think nothing of silencing any journalist who, like Tom, while wanting a free Ireland did not condone violence as a means of achieving it and was prepared to say so vocally and in print.

There was no escaping from the fact that the political situation was growing steadily worse. Outbreaks of bloodshed and brutality were becoming almost a daily occurrence, and Tom found his coverage of what was happening in and around Dublin taking him into increasingly dangerous and unpredictable situations.

Knowing how they too must be worrying, Sybil found time to write home to her parents, to her grandmother, and to her sisters, to let them all know how she and Tom were faring. Whether or not her family wanted to hear about their errant daughter and their erstwhile chauffeur was immaterial to her. Very shortly Tom would not only be her husband - how she longed for that day - but he would also then be her parents' son-in-law and her sisters' brother-in-law. And whether or not they approved of Tom, did not concern Sybil one iota. If they did not, that was their problem and it was something, which **they** would - here Sybil mentally inserted into her letter to her mother one of Tom's less colourful phrases - **"damned well"** all just have to get used to.

From the letters that Sybil had had in reply to her own, it was clear that her mother and Mary were, unsurprisingly thought Sybil, far more concerned about her moral reputation than her personal safety. Both had been at pains to point out that as far as was possible in her new life Sybil should ensure she was associating, coming into contact with, and meeting "the right sort of people" - whoever they might be thought Sybil. Her mother had underlined the word "right" twice and with such force that the nib of her pen had all but scoured through the paper. To be fair, Mama readily conceded that "… in your present position, darling, I do understand that this may not always be possible. But, do try, my darling, to remember who you are …"

Mention was made of friends of her parents … a Lord and Lady Tremayne… "who, I know would welcome you with open arms at their place outside Cork … if you decide it is in your best interests to return home to Downton. And of course, my darling, both dear Papa and I would understand entirely if you did. We would not be judgemental and …"

"No, of course not. Not at all" thought Sybil. "And if you think that I believe a word of that, dearest Mama, then you must think I was born as recently as that poor stillborn mite I helped deliver yesterday".

"However" continued her mother, now getting fully into her stride, "your Aunt Rosamund has suggested, and for once I agree with her my darling, that it would be for the best if you then went abroad for several months to recuperate". Mention was then made of Menton on the French Riviera "… popular with invalids". Sybil snorted with disbelief. **Menton?** **Invalids?** **To recuperate?** Recuperate from what exactly? Tom? Why, her mother was making Tom sound like he was some kind of disgusting disease or nasty illness.

Then there came her mother's pièce de résistance. Of course, were Sybil to accept the hospitality of the Tremaynes, she would doubtless find it necessary to re-equip her wardrobe, so that she would be suitably attired. In the particular circumstances, Mama felt sure that Papa "…could be prevailed to upon to have arrangements made for funds to be deposited in your name with the Bank of Ireland on College Green in Dublin, or wherever is most convenient to you, darling".

"**Jaysus**" thought Sybil, sub consciously employing yet another of Tom's colourful expressions. The whole, damned country is going up in flames about us, Tom's risking his life on a daily basis, and here is Mama worrying about me giving offence to her potential hosts by being inappropriately dressed for dinner!"

Re-reading her mother's letter, Sybil again snorted with contempt. "The right sort of people" indeed! She wondered if she should tell her mother about the young unmarried girl found collapsed in Faithfull Street and brought into the hospital that very morning, in what no doubt Mama would have termed "a delicate condition", but then decided against it. Some things were probably best left unsaid.

That the letters to her from Mama and from Mary also made no mention of Tom did not pass by Sybil unnoticed. In fact, the omission of any mention of Tom spoke volumes. So, thought Sybil, the emotional scars - an appropriate word she felt for a nurse to use - caused by her choice of husband and her departure for Ireland ran that deep, did they? So be it.

Ignoring the patronising offer of hospitality made on behalf of the Tremaynes, Sybil breezily let her mother know that she was very well indeed, was enjoying her nursing immensely, and was lodging in Clontarf with Tom's mother, "... not far from Tom". She then made a point of mentioning Tom by name in the remainder of her letter as many times as was possible.

It was, of course, a matter of opinion as to whether "not far" encompassed "just across the landing and under the same roof". However, by the time the true nature of Sybil's lodgings was divined, she and Tom would be married, and what her snobbish family then thought of her, and of her choice of husband, would be a matter of supreme indifference to both Tom and Sybil.

She had, Sybil informed her mother, "absolutely **no** intention whatsoever of returning home, except in the fullness of time, and then **as Tom's wife**". It was then that Sybil remembered a phrase her grandmother had once used to Cousin Isobel, Matthew's mother. Giggling, Sybil mentally added it to her last sentence:-

"And dearest Mama, you can put that in your pipe and smoke it".

As for Mary's continuing haughty stance and indifference to Tom, Sybil would tolerate it no longer. She wondered if some of Mary's open dislike of Tom was in fact aimed at herself. That, in Sybil and Tom, Mary could see, even if she would not admit it to anyone, least of all to herself, what it really meant to marry for love, that the concept was not ethereal and could, and did, actually happen. On the other hand, Mary and Sir Richard were, thought Sybil, entering into marriage not out of love, but out of convenience. To her, the relationship between her elder sister and her fiancé sounded more like a business partnership. No wonder Mary was so piqued.

That said, Sybil had no intention of causing an open breach with her elder sister - she loved her dearly. But knowing that Mary was not in love with Sir Richard, Sybil wrote guilelessly to Mary saying that she must be looking forward to her own wedding, said archly that she hoped Mary and Sir Richard's wedding plans were progressing as well as those of her and Tom. Then in the very next sentence, Sybil innocently enquired as to how Matthew was faring.

At the end of a long day for them both, Sybil and Tom were sitting snugly in the kitchen, in front of the range, she ensconced on his lap with her arms around his neck, her head resting against his comforting, firm shoulder. They had been finalising the details of their wedding. Only three more weeks and she would be Tom's wife! Without comment, Sybil passed Tom her letter to Mary and waited for his reaction. Of course, she knew that there was no love lost between them, but was still convinced that each had a sneaking admiration for the other.

If she had written her letter with the intention of surprising Tom by its content and its tone, then Sybil succeeded. Tom's jaw dropped and his brows shot up. Then he let out a guffaw that reminded her of their arrival in Kingstown. This time though, his laughter would, she felt sure, have been heard right across Dublin. When he had stopped laughing, Tom said that if ever Ma had a problem with rats or mice to make sure to remind him that there would be no need for them to get a cat - Sybil's claws were quite sharp enough.

Grinning, Sybil said that she took Tom's pithy remark as a compliment, reminding Tom that she didn't give a damn' what anyone else thought of her, or indeed, of them.

"And what, milady, would your grandmother make of her youngest granddaughter using words such as that?" asked Tom tickling Sybil under the chin.

"I rather suspect" said Sybil mischievously, "that she would put it down to the fact that I had been consorting unwisely, **very **unwisely, with someone far beneath my social status". Sybil paused, her voice took on a serious tone, then said softly. "Only, my love that wouldn't be true". Sybil caressed his cheek, with her fingers, with her lips, and then gazed directly into Tom's deep blue eyes. Such a deep blue that she felt she could drown in them. Would readily do so.

"And speaking of granny, Tom …"

Not having heard a word from her father, it had been left, rather surprisingly, to Sybil's grandmother and also, oddly enough, to Edith - possibly as a result of the well-informed opinions of Sir Anthony Strallan - to openly appreciate the worsening situation in Ireland. Both identified the threat that it posed not only to Sybil's safety, but also for Tom working as a journalist.

In fact, Edith was the first of the family, so far, to refer to Tom by his Christian name and not by his surname - something Sybil never forgot. A tacit admission if ever there was one, that Edith if no-one else in the family, realised that Tom was now the most important person in Sybil's life. No longer a servant, not just a surname, but a human being, flesh and blood, someone with feelings, opinions, and thoughts of his own, with whom Sybil had fallen passionately in love and he with her; who fully intended to make her younger sister his wife, whatever her family or society thought about their liaison.

Of course, to granny, Tom was still "Branson", and probably always would be. But neither Sybil, nor indeed Tom took any real exception to that. In fact, Tom said that he rather admired her. "Proud, determined, unashamedly patriotic, and a real pain in the backside" was Tom's critical appraisal of the Dowager Countess.

And, Tom laughed out loud at granny's characteristically engagingly simple solution to the troubles now engulfing Ireland: send a gunboat up the Thames. Quite how the Dowager Countess expected this to resolve anything, when Dublin lay nearly three hundred miles from London and stood not on the Thames, but on the Liffey, on the other side of the Irish Sea, neither Tom nor Sybil could ever quite work out.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"And the sunlight clasps the earth"

It was but a couple of days after this exchange that Sybil came home early on the tram from Dublin. Her shifts at the hospital were such that when she reached home Tom was usually, but not invariably, there before her. Today, however, was to prove different. Sybil, after having assisted at a difficult and traumatic breech birth for most of her shift, found herself allowed to leave early, on account not only of her exhaustion, but also because of the very real threat of yet more disruption to the tram service as part of the ongoing troubles.

When, after a thankfully uneventful journey back to Clontarf - these days if the tram stopped running there was no telling how long it might be before the service resumed - she reached home – how Sybil loved the sound of that word - she found the house empty and quiet. Not, given the hour, that she had expected to find Tom in, but Ma, too, unexpectedly was out.

Having let herself in, she hung up her coat and hat in the hall, then walked through into the cosy kitchen. With boiling water from the range, she set about making herself a pot of tea. She sat down and took the weight off her tired feet and, while drinking her freshly brewed tea, Sybil decided that after she had freshened up, the weather being fine, she would, once again, wander down to the beach and take a stroll along the strand.

Over here in Ireland, much to her constant delight, Sybil now found herself thankfully well away from the ever watchful, prying eyes of not only her own family but also from those of the multitude of servants back at Downton Abbey. The opportunity thus afforded to her of being able to do something as carefree and straightforward as taking an un-chaperoned stroll along a bustling city street, or else walking alone along the windswept beach here at Clontarf, was something that she relished; was a constant, untrammeled delight. So during the past few weeks, whenever the opportunity had arisen, she had availed herself of the occasion thus presented to do both, and told Tom just how much pleasure the chance to do so had given her. Tom laughed at her, said he was frankly amazed that someone from Sybil's privileged background could gain so much pleasure from such a simple act as an afternoon stroll along a deserted beach.

At that, Sybil stuck out her tongue at Tom, told him that whatever he might think it was true enough. That if she was extremely fortunate, she might well chance to encounter a handsome young Irishman doing just the same and fall desperately in love with him! Tom's response had been predictably pithy, saying that if wishes were horses, then beggars might ride; it was extremely unlikely that either would happen. After all, he would be at work and, in any case, at the times Sybil chose to go for one of her un-chaperoned strolls along the beach here at Clontarf, the strand was all but deserted – which, of course, was true enough. Sybil pouted, pulled a face, and said in that case, she might well just have to see about changing the times of her shifts at the Coombe.

"As you will," laughed Tom. "But you never know, love, one day you might, just might, get lucky!"

Later that very same day, after strolling along the beach for a while, she had found a convenient rock on which to sit. Having done so, she glanced cautiously about her. Seeing nobody in sight, Sybil rolled up her long skirt to her knees, slipped off her shoes and stockings, sat down, and dangled her feet contentedly in the cold water of the rock pool immediately below the ledge on which she was sitting.

Sybil sighed.

When the mood took her, she was quite an accomplished artist; would have dearly loved to try to paint the scene now before her. Of course, her artistic endeavours had never found much favour, even within her own family. Neither Mary nor Edith had any real interest in art; her mother thought Sybil's sketches "nice", while her father remarked it was such a shame that none of them would ever be good enough to be hung in the main rooms of the Abbey. For her part, the Dowager Countess had observed that if Sybil continued with her "drawings", as she condescendingly termed them, then Granny would begin to suspect that Sybil was hiding a secret much like Mrs. Graham had in Anne Brontë's "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall".

With the sole exception of her sketchbook and pencils, which were in the bottom of her trunk in her bedroom, all of her artist's materials, her easel, her brushes, and paints were still at Downton, all Sybil could do was sit and gaze out to sea, taking in the natural beauty of her immediate surroundings.

A short while later, she felt a pair of strong arms grasp her firmly from behind. Letting out a scream, Sybil began to struggle, and twisted this way and that, then turning, found herself gazing up into a pair of merry, twinkling blue eyes.

"Well, didn't you tell me that you might chance to encounter a handsome young Irishman down here on the beach. And, lucky for you, now you have!" chuckled Tom.

"Tom, darling! But how …"

Tom grinned, leaned in towards her for a lingering kiss.

A short while later they were sitting side by side on the same rock chatting contentedly.

"And in answer to your question" laughed Tom, "I finished the piece I was working on sooner than expected, so I asked Harrington if I could knock off early. You see I'd heard tell that about this time a beautiful young woman might be seen strolling alone, along this very beach. I thought to myself that if I hurried back, I might just happen to meet up with her. I came back to see if I could. And so I have! Satisfied?"

"I'm more than satisfied, but what if my fiancé should ever find out?" giggled Sybil slipping her arms around Tom's neck, drawing his face back down towards her own.

With the memory of that most unexpected encounter, and also what then followed, firmly fixed in the forefront of her mind, smiling to herself, Sybil proceeded to fill a large white china jug with hot water, again from the range, carried it carefully upstairs and set it down on the top of the washstand in her bedroom.

Having shimmied out of her nurse's uniform, down to her underclothes, for the next ten minutes or so, Sybil luxuriated sensuously in washing away the aches and strains of her day spent at the hospital with hot water and perfumed lavender soap. If the truth were told, she tried, and all but succeeded, in imagining that it was Tom's firm hands gently lathering in the soap to her already moist skin. The very thought of him doing such a thing made her body begin to respond in a way she had not thought possible, sent her almost wild with desire…

No, she thought. That for now perforce must stop.

Then she became practical once more. And, having briskly towelled herself dry, Sybil changed into a peacock blue straight-line chemise. Since the end of the war, women's fashions had become much easier to get into ... and out of, which, if one did not have the time, or indeed the services of a lady's maid to call upon to help one change, was of considerable benefit.

So too, was having given up wearing her corset. Sybil knew that Tom knew that she had done so. After all, in some of their more intimate and lengthy passionate embraces - here Sybil blushed at the very thought of Tom's caressing hands upon her - he could not have failed to notice. But, possibly out of shyness (not a trait she normally associated with him) he had, as yet, failed to comment.

Of course, if granny got to hear about it, she would probably have a severe, potentially fatal, touch of the vapours, no doubt attributing the now widespread practice of going un-corseted as yet further proof (if any was necessary) of the continuing inexorable decline in the moral standards of modern youth. And which, her grandmother attributed to unacceptable laxness during the war.

Having combed out, brushed, and put up her long black hair, something which she had become quite proficient at doing, even without Anna being there to assist her, Sybil put on her navy coat and gloves, picked up her serviceable but stylish grey cloche hat with its brightly coloured feather fan, and crossed the landing to the top of the stairs on her way out and bound for the beach. Perhaps it was pure chance, perhaps not, for it was then that she suddenly thought of her book - of Shelley's poems - a slim volume, bound in red Moroccan leather, which she had brought over with her from Downton; ideal reading, Sybil thought, when sitting down on the beach.

The book normally resided on the nightstand beside her bed, but it was not there now. Then she remembered. Of course, last night she'd been reading to Tom from it downstairs in the front parlour and, Tom being Tom, he had asked to borrow it, to copy out her favourite poem titled "Love's Philosophy" to put up above his desk in his bedroom.

Sybil knew the poem off by heart. She adored it, especially the second stanza of the second verse:-

"And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea -

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?"

Sybil thought it unlikely that Tom would have taken the book with him into work. Had he done so, he would, she felt sure, have found himself the butt of all manner of ribald jokes from his male colleagues. So, presumably, the book was in his ... bedroom. Her past straitened upbringing told Sybil that she should not now being doing what she proposed to do - going into a man's bedroom, even if that man was her fiancé. But what possible harm could there be? They would be married in a matter of weeks and Tom was at work. Throwing caution to the winds, Sybil gently pushed open the door.

She saw the book almost immediately. It lay on Tom's desk, or rather what passed for his desk. Nothing like her father's grand mahogany edifice in his library at Downton, Tom's desk was a small scuffed affair, made of pitch pine, and bought second hand for a few pounds from a bankruptcy sale in nearby Raheny.

The desk was littered with papers.

Perhaps littered was unfair; covered was more apt, as Tom was very methodical in his approach to his work, his papers and books neatly ordered, the books, interleaved with copious notes and references. There were, drafts and re-drafts of articles on which Tom was presently working, copies of replies to correspondents in Belfast, Cork, Dublin, Waterford and a whole host of other places in Ireland, some of which Sybil had heard of, others of which she had not. At his office in Talbot Street, Tom had made himself familiar with and begun to use a typewriter. That he was soon very proficient in his use of it came as no surprise to Sybil. After all, Tom was good with all kinds of machinery, which was why he had proved such an excellent chauffeur. But here in Clontarf, he wrote out all his replies in long hand. And as for his other admirable qualities … Sybil smiled ... those were unlikely to appear on any letter he might write seeking a position of employment. Moreover, were, in fact, again she smiled to herself, qualities which she would far rather, even expect, that he kept private, known only to her.

On top of Tom's papers lay her book of Shelley's poems. Picking it up and glancing round Tom's inner sanctum, Sybil, with a lingering sense of regret, made ready to leave the silent, sunlit bedroom. She turned quickly on her heel, and, as she did so, the rag rug lying on the floor in the centre of the room suddenly shifted. Sybil momentarily lost her balance, and reaching out instinctively to steady herself, it was then that she dropped the book. And as the slim volume began its downward descent, so a single sheet of paper fluttered out and fell with it to the floor.

Reaching down, Sybil picked up both her book and the sheet of paper. The paper was thick and of good quality, much like that used by her mother.

Initially, she took it for Tom's copy of the poem, until she realised, it was not Tom's bold hand that leapt up at her from the page, but a woman's delicate, cursive script. That in itself would not have concerned her. After all, Tom corresponded with all manner of people in his day to day work, and it was inevitable that some of them would be women. The letter, for that was what it was, was dated 5th July 1919, a matter of no more than a few days ago, and had been written from Skerries House, County Cork.

However, it was the opening words of salutation that caused her to gasp out aloud.

"My dearest, darling Tommy ..."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

What The Dowager Countess Said

The crumpled, tear-stained letter lay beside her on the bed. His bed.

If someone had crept softly into that small sunlit bedroom and asked Sybil how long she had been sitting there alone, on Tom's bed, as the shadows lengthened and the dusk drew down about her, she would not have been able to say. But sometimes gaps in memory can be merciful.

Although the sky outside was now slowly beginning to darken, it was still very warm. For Sybil, time seemed to have stood still. She was conscious only of a blinding pain throbbing somewhere above her right eye. In her lap lay her copy of Shelley's poems, open at "Love's Philosophy". All thought of the beach long since forgotten, at some point, she must, Sybil assumed, have taken off her outer clothes. Her coat lay draped casually over the back of Tom's chair, her hat and gloves lay on top of his desk.

The window stood unlatched and open. Had she done that? If so, she had no recollection of so doing. The smell of herbs and fruit drifted in through the open window from the garden below. She could hear the distant roar of the waves breaking on the seashore on the far side of the house; the ebb and flow of the tide on the beach where she had walked with Tom the previous evening, as indeed they had done together on so many evenings in the last few weeks, ever since their arrival here in Clontarf. Somewhere outside a dog barked, and a blackbird flew up into the bough of a cherry tree close by the house and began to sing. And beyond the tree, the pale azure of the late afternoon summer sky, almost imperceptibly, but slowly and inexorably, faded into subtle shades of grey and mauve.

Then, somewhere in the silent, darkening house, a solitary board creaked.

A slight shiver rang up her spine and, raising her tear stained face, Sybil glanced up - to see Tom framed in the open doorway of the room. How long he had been standing there, was impossible to say. Through the window, and cast by the waning sun, a fleeting ray of light caught a glint in his fair hair, making it gleam like spun gold, but despite the momentary brightness of the sun, despite the warmth yet remaining of that summer evening, Sybil felt herself shiver. Tom was watching her intently, but his eyes, usually so dark, so alive, were now pale, opaque, as if sheathed in ice.

He was saying something to her. Sybil didn't really hear ... caught single words, disjointed phrases.

"... article went well …finished early for the day ... went to the hospital ... found you'd been sent home ... tram … Clontarf …I was so worried ..."

It was then that he caught sight of the creased letter lying on the bed beside her.

"You **read **it? **All **of it?"Tom seemed utterly aghast; looked visibly shaken. He was looking at her with an expression which she could not quite comprehend.

Sybil nodded weakly.

"Yes" she said icily. "**All of it**!"

"Sybil, love, I never … I didn't … that is I don't ... what I mean is I …" Tom stammered, and then stopped whatever it was he was trying to say. For the very first time in their relationship he was lost for words. Sybil sensed that Tom was uncharacteristically unsure of himself, seemed uncertain of what he should either say or do next. This unnerved her even more. Tom staggered, apparently unsteady on his feet, pitched forward, slumped down in his chair, elbows on his desk, his face in his hands, and began to sob uncontrollably, as violent spasms of grief convulsed his whole body.

At any other time, Sybil would have gone to him, as she had done several times before, on the deck of the Munster, in Sackville Street, here in Clontarf. She would have done anything; knelt beside him, would have cradled Tom in her arms, have held him close, to comfort him, to try to ease, to share his pain. Now, although it cost her dear in her frayed emotions, she did not respond to his all too obvious distress. Almost as motionless as Hermione's statue, Sybil merely held out the letter towards him. Then, when Tom failed to take it, failed to react, she laid it aside on the bed; said softly:

"Tom, there are things to tell me, aren't there?" He didn't answer her.

"There are things to tell me, aren't there?" persisted Sybil.

Almost indiscernibly, Tom nodded his head, then raised his equally tear stained face to meet her own.

"It's not what you think, my love. Believe me".

Sybil looked at him, mutely questioningly.

"Be that as it may Tom, even so, you must tell me, my love" she said at length. "All of it. If we are to have a future together, I have a right to know".

"Yes", said Tom, at length and at last regaining some form of his customary composure. He let out a deep sigh, was now looking at her with the same strange expression on his face, which once again she could not quite identify. A faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Yes, my darling" he said more forcefully. "Yes, you most certainly do".

"Well, then ..."

A white china jug, with an upturned glass stood on the pine washstand over by the open window. Tom nodded towards it.

"Shall I pour you a glass of water, love?"

"Why?" asked Sybil curtly, immediately suspicious.

"I think you may have need of it", said Tom.

Beneath the apparent flippancy of his remark, Sybil sensed something else, something unfamiliar, unforeseen, and unknown. Instead of answering him, she shook her head. Then, slowly, almost mechanically, laying aside her book, Sybil rose to her feet and walked over to the washstand and poured herself the glass of water he had suggested he pour for her. Seated back on the bed once more, she took the barest sip of water, wondering why it was that she had not thought to fling the contents of the glass in his face.

Tom got up and crossed the few steps to where she was sitting on the bed. The overwhelming concern he had for her was etched all too plainly across his tear-stained face. Slowly, he reached forward and laid his hand gently upon her shoulder, made to sit down beside her on the bed … **his** bed. Sybil flinched at his touch as if she had been struck. Her head came up; her whole body shook and then went taut.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed. There was no question but that Sybil meant what she said. Tom was visibly shaken by her unexpected rejection of him, so much so that he stepped back a couple of paces. At that precise moment Sybil didn't care how much she had hurt him; she thought that what she wanted most was to see Tom suffer.

But it was then that she chanced to look up. What she saw all but took her breath away. His eyes were as blue and clear as a summer sky. She looked into Tom's well-loved face. The face of the man that - God help me she thought – even now, I love him to distraction. At the same time another more disconcerting thought came to Sybil. Tom's uneasy about telling me this; whatever "**this**" is all about. And the dawning realisation of this made Sybil even more frightened than ever.

For him.

For herself.

For them both.

"Don't look so expectant, my love" said Tom with a half smile. I do assure you this is one secret I'd rather not share with anyone; even with you".

"Tom, just tell me" said Sybil tautly.

"Very well then. Do you remember that day in the churchyard back at Downton, after Lavinia's funeral service was over?" asked Tom softly. The seemingly ordinariness of the nature of his question took Sybil completely by surprise. So much so that for but an instant she gaped open-mouthed at him, unsure of what to say...

"Of course I do" she snapped. "After all, how could I ever forget it? But what about it?" she asked somewhat more calmly.  
"What do you recall? Specifically, I mean".

Sybil looked steadily at Tom, as slowly, she attempted laboriously to gather together her thoughts, tried to marshal in her mind whatever she could recall of that particular part of the day now under consideration. She willed herself to remember. Think Sybil … think back.

Tom's arrival in the churchyard that day had not surprised her. Whatever her family may have thought of him, Tom's manners were always impeccable. Given Sybil's overwrought state, caused in part at least by her family's all too predictable hostility to the announcement of their engagement, Tom had known that Lavinia's funeral would be an ordeal for her. He had told her that he would come, that he would be there whatever happened, even if his very presence provoked another furious outburst on the part of her father. That Tom would do that for her, simply made Sybil love him even more.

They had been standing talking on the churchyard path. Tom had been telling her when they had to be in Holyhead to catch the early morning sailing across the Irish Sea to Kingstown two days hence.

"Papa" said Sybil emphatically at last. "He asked you what you were doing there. You told him that you'd come to pay your respects to Lavinia and to see me. There was some silly nonsense on Papa's part about you referring to me as Sybil and not **Lady** Sybil".

Tom smiled. He nodded.

"And?" he persisted.  
"And what?" asked Sybil, completely mystified by Tom's continued line of questioning.

"I mean what happened after that?"

"Papa said he assumed we'd be travelling to Dublin very soon. I said that we would be and that I wished he and I could part as friends and he asked the very same question of you. You, as I recall, said that you would like to part as friends, but didn't expect to do so; something like that".

Again Tom nodded.

"We turned to walk away and Papa said that if we were set on marrying that he saw no point in a quarrel. He told me that I'd have a very different life to the one I would have had, but that if I was sure about marrying you … I looked at you, and you looked at me, and I said that I was. So then Papa said he would give us his blessing to marry. I asked him if he would come over to Dublin for our wedding. He didn't say he would or that he wouldn't. As I recollect it, he said, that we'd talk about it later. Not that we ever did. On the day we left for Ireland, Mama told us that Papa had urgent business which necessitated his presence up in London and that he had caught the first train of the day up to town. Not that either of us believed it to be true. Papa also said that he would give us some money. "But not much" was the exact phrase!" In spite of the now strained situation between her and Tom, Sybil found herself smiling. "So like Papa".

"And then what?"

"You both shook hands and for the very first time ever in public you took my hand in yours. We set off down the church path towards the lych gate, intending to walk back up to the house". Sybil smiled broadly at the remembrance of the scene she had conjured in her mind. "Once round the corner of the churchyard wall I had to stop. There was a stone in my shoe. Remember?" The smile swiftly faded from her lips.

Tom nodded. "Yes my love, I do. I most certainly do".

"Then … then we heard Papa and granny. They were both but a short distance behind us, and were coming down that same narrow path leading from the church porch. Oh, yes. And we overheard that ridiculous comment of granny's ... about trying to make you sound rather more respectable. By telling everybody that you were political, that you were a writer, and that if all of that failed, granny would do her very best to hitch you on to an Irish gentry family "called Branson..."

"... with a place not far from Cork" finished Tom softly. "Yes my love. You see, you do remember. You remember it all. Do you also recall that I once told you, that for all her myriad of faults, I admired your grandmother tremendously? In fact, I still do".

Sybil nodded mutely. "But I still don't see ..."

"Your grandmother's comment was indeed ridiculous; but for all the wrong reasons. My love, she was far closer to the truth than even she could have ever had realised. My darling, there would be no point whatsoever in her "hitching me on to the Bransons from near Cork".

Tom paused.

He looked directly down at Sybil.

Then said calmly without a trace of emotion "… when they're already my own kith and kin".


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Of Kith and Kin

If Tom had set out to surprise Sybil, he had done so. This time, he thought her silence would never end. At his words, her eyes fastened on Tom's face and then never left it for an instant. For what seemed like an age, she sat on his bed simply looking at him, open-mouthed, while her brain reeled, as she tried desperately to take in exactly what it was that he had just said.

After a long while, at length, seemingly having gathered her thoughts, she looked at him levelly. Then said:

"Tom, none of this makes any sense. If, as you claim, you are related to the Bransons from near Cork, then what on earth were you doing at Downton … working as a chauffeur? What are you doing here, working in Dublin … as a journalist? And if any of this is true, why didn't you tell me about it long ere now? And who the hell is Maeve?" Sybil did her best, but mangled the pronunciation of the unfamiliar Irish name.

"Not Ma eve, Sybil. May v" said Tom with a grin. From the livid expression on Sybil's face, he realised, too late, that he had miscalculated, had over stepped the mark. Now, he reflected ruefully, was not the time for levity … of any kind.

"Don't you get clever with me, Tom Branson" said Sybil her temper suddenly flaring. "You've a very great deal of explaining to do".

"I suppose I do" said Tom sheepishly.

"Suppose? **Suppose**?" You're **bloody** right you do" said Sybil emphatically.

"Sybil!"

"And before you say anything, **Mr.** Branson, given all the circumstances, I think I have every right to use whatever language I choose!"

Then, slowly, and with deliberate emphasis, Sybil did just that. She began to call Tom every coarse name she had ever heard, making use of invective she didn't realise she even knew, but which had, subconsciously found its way into her memory from the soldiers in her care at Ripon Military Camp; to a lesser extent from her charges at Downton. There were even some Irish swear words sprinkled into her tirade learned from her feisty female patients in the hospital in the Coombe district of Dublin.

Tom tried to interject on a couple of occasions, but Sybil shouted him down into silence. After his second failed attempt, thereafter, he didn't even try to interrupt her, but let her finish her tirade.

And only when Sybil finally fell silent, did he then say softly:

"Now, do you think we might continue this conversation downstairs in the kitchen, and without trading accusations or insults?"

"Why downstairs?" asked Sybil suspiciously.

"Because, my love" said Tom calmly, and with infinite patience, "I don't suppose you've had anything to eat since you got back here from the Coombe. Neither have I. I'm tired, I'm thirsty and I'm famished. And, if you don't mind, before I tell you what it is you want to know, I could do with something inside me by way of food".

"Very well. Agreed" said Sybil haughtily. Ignoring Tom's proffered out stretched hand she got up from the bed, strode across the room to the door and walked down the stairs in a high dudgeon to the kitchen, Tom following close behind.

Once downstairs, Sybil seated herself primly at the bare kitchen table. Unusually for her, she made no attempt whatsoever to help with the preparations for their meal. If Tom noticed her inactivity, wisely he forbore to remark upon it. Instead, he busied himself carrying food from the larder - some cold meats, pickles, bread and butter, a piece of fruit pie - then fetched a pitcher of milk, cutlery and crockery, and placed it all on the kitchen table. While Tom poured boiling water from the kettle off the range into a brown earthenware teapot, Sybil sat in stony silence.

"Where's Ma?" she asked at length, now genuinely concerned and mystified by the continuing absence of Mrs. Branson.

"Didn't I say? I must have forgotten to tell you" said Tom affably, placing the teapot on the table. "It must have been shortly after you'd left for the hospital this morning. Word came from the farm that young Ruari had fallen out of the hayloft and broken his arm. As soon as she was ready, Ma was off there like a shot. Aislin had called the doctor and no doubt by now he's been and set the lad's arm. The chap Ciaran sent over with the message said not to worry, that Ruari's not badly hurt, apart from his arm that is; shaken, to be sure, and a bit black and blue, but that he'd mend given time. So, as I said, nothing serious, but you know how Ma fusses. She told me that she might not be back until tomorrow. She sends her love, said she trusts us both to behave with decorum.

"**Well**" said Sybil with withering sarcasm, "given the circumstances, there's precious little chance of us not doing that. As I said, **you** have some explaining to do. And you'd better make it bloody good Tom Branson - if you don't want to find me on the next train to Kingstown and the steam packet back to England. And, even if you do, you may well find me doing that anyway".

"Indeed I have" said Tom. "But for the time being, leave it please, Sybil. Let's just eat, eh? Tea?"

A short while later, the meal over, with both of them feeling suitably refreshed, it was Sybil who spoke first.

"So, as to Maeve. I would be most interested to learn who this woman is, who thinks she can write to my fiancé in this way". From off the kitchen table, Sybil picked up the letter which she had brought with her from upstairs and proceeded to read it out aloud, word for word.

"Skerries House

County Cork

5th July 1919

My dearest darling Tommy,

I pray this letter reaches you, and if so, I trust that it finds you both keeping well and in good health. After all, in these doubtful times, nothing is certain, and now, what with all the unrest around here, the post is not what it once was. You will, I'm sure, be surprised to hear from me, but then, unlike you, I never was much good at writing letters.

I understand, from a mutual acquaintance of ours, who said he would use his contacts to arrange delivery of this letter - it's probably best that I don't say who, just in case this falls into the wrong hands - that you're back here in Ireland and shortly to be married. A local girl, is she? Well, whoever she is, she is very, very lucky. She must be someone very special to have won your heart my dearest boy, which, after all is something that I know you don't give away easily.

If only we … but enough of past regrets. I wish you well, my darling boy, I really do.

Dear Lord, what an awful time this is to be alive! One hears all sorts of dreadful stories, reads of all kinds of outrages, of terrible things being done. The papers are full of reports of lynchings, shootings, burnings, of unimaginable horrors.

I suppose, you remember the Tremaynes? Well, of course you must. After all, you can't have forgotten the day we spent there on the beach! They lived at Curraghmore, just along the coast from here. Anyway, a few months ago, because of all the trouble, they shut up the house and returned home to England, to their place in the West Country, to await better times. And now, now they'll never come back. Just last week - you may have seen the report in the Irish Times - some of the so-called Volunteers broke into Curraghmore and burned it to the ground as a reprisal for the shooting of several of their number by our army.

Down here, for me at least, life continues much as it has always done. But my real reason for writing to you, my darling boy, is this. Papa passed away last month. And while I know you had, with good reason, no cause to love him, or Mama, I don't need to tell you, what his death means for you, my dearest Tommy for me, in fact for both of us, and for Skerries.

May God keep you safe my darling boy,

With my love,

Maeve"

"So, who is she then, this Maeve?" asked Sybil with barely concealed annoyance.

"As to Maeve" said Tom, "she's my cousin". My Uncle Jacob's daughter. She's some six years older than me. She was always very fond of me she was". Tom started to grin again, and then thought better of it.

"Your **cousin**?"

"Yes. There are three of them. Maeve's the youngest. Then, there are her two older brothers, William and Christopher. There's a photograph somewhere upstairs, of all of us, standing on the front steps to the house at Skerries. I suppose it must have been taken about 1905".  
"Yes, I know" said Sybil, stiffly.

"You know?" asked Tom astonished. "But how on earth do you …"

"Don't worry" said Sybil brusquely. "I haven't been snooping amongst your things. I came across it quite by chance. It was amongst your papers … I found it when I was trying to sort them out … when they'd been thrown on the floor … on the train". I assume the man and woman standing on the steps are their parents - your aunt and uncle?"

Tom nodded.

"Yes my Uncle Jacob and his wife". Sybil saw Tom's lip curl.

"And will I be meeting any of them? Any of this mysterious family you lay claim to?" asked Sybil perfunctorily.

"I shouldn't think so", said Tom neutrally. "As you found out from Maeve's letter, my uncle died but a short while ago. And good riddance to the bloody bastard too! My aunt - Clarissa? A right cold hearted bitch if ever there was one - I assume she must still be living, hopefully decaying, down at Skerries. Maeve is there as you know".

"And, what about … Maeve's two brothers?" asked Sybil.

"William and Christopher? No, you won't be seeing either of them" said Tom emphatically.

"And why is that?" asked Sybil. "I assume they actually do exist. Or are they figments of your vivid imagination? Perhaps they're as mythical as the leprechauns in which you Irish believe".

"No" said Tom. "They're not. At least they weren't".

Sybil noted Tom's sudden change of tense.

"Weren't …" she began.

"Both of them were killed; during the war. William at Gallipoli in April 1915 and Christopher on the Marne in July 1918, not long before the whole damned show ended".

"How awful" said Sybil, realising that she had allowed her temper to get the better of her. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have said what I did".

"Don't be sorry" said Tom. "I'm not. They were a pair of utter bloody bastards. I hated both of them. Mind you, I know the feeling was mutual". The vehemence of his remark left Sybil in no doubt that Tom meant what he had just said.

"But … but why?"

"To explain that, my love I have to tell you something else. Something I'd rather not …"

"Well, whether you'd rather not, you're going to have to tell me. I told you, Tom Branson, if we're to have a future together, you …

Sybil stopped what she was saying, seeing there were tears starting in Tom's eyes.

Hurriedly, Tom wiped his eyes.

"I remember you once telling me that Mary's first love, your cousin Patrick, drowned when the Titanic went down in 1912?"

"Yes" snapped Sybil. "Both Patrick and his father were lost on the Titanic. But, don't try and change the subject. What happened to my family … that … that has nothing do with what you're telling me now".  
"It might do" said Tom softly.

"I can't see how. The loss of …"

"Loss" yelled Tom suddenly with savage mockery. "Do you know the meaning of the word, Sybil?"What a feckin' bloody stupid word to use … to hide the pain of losing someone dear!"

While Sybil was taken aback by Tom's outburst, she did not fail to notice that Tom's eyes had again filled with tears which, this time, were now spilling unchecked and unheeded down both his cheeks. She recognised the faraway look on his face too. She had seen it before - on board the Munster and when she caught Tom staring out to sea on the day of their arrival here in Clontarf.

"I was twelve years old" said Tom softly, his voice faltering, "when I, as you so quaintly put it … **lost** … both my parents. They were drowned - when the steamship Hilda ran aground, in thick fog, and sank off the Breton coast in December 1905. From what I've read, unlike the Titanic, the ship my parents were on sank very quickly. Hardly anyone survived.

She'd been bound for St. Malo. My mother's family came from near there - "French peasant stock as my uncle Jacob contemptuously referred to them". At the time of the loss of the Hilda, my parents were going over to visit her father - my maternal grandfather - the last of the family. Oh, I expect there are some cousins of mine knocking about over there, but that's all. I … I was away at school at the time here in Ireland, not far from Cork".

Tom sniffed heavily, angrily wiped away the falling tears with the back of his hands.

"My father, Edward, - my mother always called him "Edouard", was my uncle's younger brother. They never got on. I think it had something to do with the fact that their father - my late grandfather - I never knew him - preferred my father to his elder brother. I think they also disagreed about the estate - how it was being run.

That rankled with Uncle Jacob. That and the fact that, unlike my aunt and uncle, my parents … had married for love. When my parents first met, my father was an officer with the Irish Hussars stationed here in Dublin, which is where he met my mother, Hélène. She was employed as a governess by one of the wealthy English families living on FitzWilliam Street. My mother's family … they were farmers certainly, but not peasants. That was just the kind of nasty, spiteful, class ridden remark my Uncle Jacob would make. Exactly where my mother's people came from, I'm not now sure. Maybe it was Dinan, but wherever it was, it was she who gave me my lasting love of books and history. The politics … well, that came later.

I grew up here in Dublin, not far from the Royal Barracks in Arbour Hill. My parents had no other children, although I suppose they'd have liked more. Perhaps I was too much of a handful! Anyway, after they died, there I was orphaned at twelve. Of course, my uncle and aunt had little option, but to take me in. Even so, it was obvious from the beginning that neither of them wanted me there at Skerries. Neither had approved of my parents' marriage, nor, I suppose of me - the living proof that it had taken place.

Of their children, only Maeve, I suppose she was about eighteen at the time of my coming to live at Skerries, showed any kindness to me - their young orphaned cousin. She'd play with me; take me down to the beach below the house". Tom paused. The same faraway look came into his eyes once again. "Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, yes. It was down on the beach there that I learned to fly a kite - Maeve had found it up in the attics of the house. I suppose it must once have belonged to her brothers...

Tom suddenly stopped speaking.

Sybil looked up to find he was staring vacantly into the middle distance, much as she had seen him do several times before. Evidently, he was seeing something far beyond the confines of the homely room in which they were both now sitting. While Sybil now at least understood something of the pain Tom had endured as a young boy, she thought, no knew, that there were still some things, which he had not so far chosen or felt able to tell her. Tom was obviously recalling something of that nature to mind now, and from the pained expression on his face, whatever it was, it was clearly a recollection which he would far sooner rather forget. To Sybil it was all too obvious that Tom found this particular memory especially upsetting. She saw him swallow hard as he tried to regain control of himself. A moment or two later and Tom began speaking again, his voice halting and hesitant, raw with emotion.

"There were ... there were two photographs in my bedroom at Skerries, Sybil ... of my parents. After all these years, do you know I can't even remember what they looked like? Have you any idea ... can you imagine how that feels?"

Sybil saw a deep tremor course right through him, saw Tom's eyes glisten again with unbidden tears. At that precise moment, Sybil's heart went out to him. Casting aside her anger, she rose from her chair, moved swiftly round the table to kneel by his side on the cold quarries of the kitchen floor. Slipping her arms about his neck, she held him close, while Tom's tears spilled freely and unheeded down his cheeks.

"Hush now, my darling. It's all right, Tom", said Sybil softly, cradling him in her arms.

Tom sniffed heavily, savagely wiping away the tears with the back of his hand.

"God, Sybil, whatever would I do without you?" Tom gazed back at her, his eyes red from sobbing.

Sybil nodded; said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"As … as for my cousins, William and Christopher, they were somewhat older than me, and although you would have thought they would have known better, they bullied me mercilessly. Like their father, they treated me as if I wasn't even human. I'll spare you the details, apart from this by way of example.

During the first and only winter I spent at Skerries, small items, trinkets and the like began, inexplicably, to disappear from round the house, only to surface as mysteriously in my room, hidden amongst my clothes, in my school trunk. All my denials were in vain. I was accused of being a liar and a thief. My uncle beat me savagely. He thrashed me within an inch of my life. I bore the scars of that beating for weeks after. I still do. He treated me, his nephew, no better than he treated his tenants, and he treated them worse than anyone I've ever come across. What I saw, what … what was done to me, gave me a lasting hatred of everything about the class system.

Eventually, when I could stand it no longer, I ran away … and came back to Dublin, to a very different way of life to that which I'd experienced when I'd lived here before. I'd nothing left to lose. Those who had loved me, those who had mattered to me the most in my young life, were both dead. I scarcely cared if I lived or died.

I knew no-one in Dublin.

I survived by living on my wits. You've seen what it's like over in the Coombe district of the city, Sybil? Well, there are parts of Dublin much worse than that. I've seen things, experienced things, you can scarcely guess at. Why, I even begged in the streets for food.

Then one day, quite by chance, I met up with Donal - on Sackville Street as it happens. At that time he was driving a dray for the Guinness brewery. He took me under his wing, got me a job at the brewery, running messages. That was the start of it.

As I grew older, I found I had an aptitude for working with all kinds of machines and more specifically for driving and repairing motor vehicles. I got my first job as a chauffeur driving for a family in Merrion Square. I moved from there to a similar, but better paid, position in Rutland Square.

Finally I got lucky, and secured a post as one of the chauffeurs driving for the Earl of Aberdeen. He was Lord Lieutenant at the time. And, it was while working there, at the Vice Regal Lodge, just off Phoenix Park, that I saw the advertisement for the post of chauffeur at Downton. The rest you know.

By this time, my home was here in Clontarf - with Ma, Ciaran, Donal and Emer. One day, I was probably no more than thirteen, perhaps a little older, it was while I was still working at the brewery anyway, and Donal brought me over to Clontarf … to meet his family. His father had just died and he prevailed upon Ma - perhaps by way of a distraction - to take me in; which she did. Thereafter, she put me through night school to finish my education.

Since my parents died, Ma and all of them here are the only real family I've ever known. It was pure chance that they should share the same surname, but as you will by now have realised, "Branson" is quite a common name in these parts. All they know - about what went before - is that both my parents are dead. They know nothing about Skerries - and whatever you may think of me, Sybil, for having kept that part of my life from you, it's something I'd rather that they never know.

And now with my uncle dead, comes the greatest irony of all.

Skerries may be nowhere near as grand as Downton, although there was once, or so I believe, an earldom associated with the estate, but it was forfeited long ago. I expect it could be resurrected. It may even predate that of the Granthams, but no matter. As for the estate itself, well, much of it was sold off during the last century, to pay debts. So, all that really remains of it today are the house, the grounds, a few hundred acres, and a handful of now probably not so faithful tenants.

But while Skerries differs from Downton in so many ways, it is like it in one important, inescapable respect; not because it's a country estate, but because …"

Here Tom paused, looked directly down at Sybil, and then continued:

"… Skerries, like Downton, are entailed. And, with the unexpected deaths of my cousins during the war, and now my uncle, the estate passes … to **me**. Whether I want it or not, legally, Skerries is now mine.

Ridiculous isn't it? That I, with my Socialist principles should, by pure chance, have become the master of an estate, have tenants I don't want, and who doubtless don't want me, but who owe me their respect, who, as things stand, must pay their rents, and to whom I have responsibilities. All this, coming at a time in Ireland's history which places me firmly as a member of the ruling class and makes me … and therefore you by association with me, fair game for those who are seeking to set Ireland free, to rid her of people like my Uncle Jacob and everything he stood for, once and for all.

And, while it therefore may not be safe for me in Ireland much longer, this country is my home. I'll never leave. But, with what's now happening over here, given who** you **are, it's most definitely not safe for **you**. For, if anyone ever finds out whom you are …"

Tom stopped, swallowed hard, and then continued, his voice faltering.

"So, if after what I've now told you, if you think I've not been honest with you, that I've misled you, if you feel you must return to Downton, much as it will break my heart, I'd understand. After all, I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you because of your association with me".

Tom finally fell silent.

He looked at Sybil across the kitchen table, still littered with the remains of their hastily prepared evening meal, his eyes expectant, silently pleading with Sybil to give him some sign of what it was she intended to do. But, in that, he waited in vain; none came.

The silence in the small kitchen deepened, while outside the night drew down.

Sybil rose to her feet, looked down at Tom.

"Thank you" she said at length. "Thank you for telling me, Tom … for finally having the courage to tell me. I realise that it must all have been very painful for you".

Here Sybil paused.

"But now, I have to think things over. You know I don't like deceit, Tom. If only you had had the courage to tell me all of this before we left for Ireland. Now … now I don't know what to think anymore. I need time. Time to decide. If whether … we can have a future together. I promise I'll let you know what I've decided … in the morning".

As she finished speaking, Sybil realised that the look on Tom's face was the same as it had been on that night at the Swan Inn, when following the unexpected arrival of her sisters in hot pursuit of the eloping pair of them, Sybil had told Tom that along with Mary and Edith, she would be returning voluntarily to Downton.

"As you wish … milady" said Tom tersely.

"Then, I'll say goodnight" said Sybil.

Tom did not reply.

There was nothing more to be said.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"And the moonbeams kiss the sea"

With the setting of the sun, even with the window fully open, it was still unbearably hot here at the top of the house. The air was heavy, with not a breath of wind.

Her head throbbing, Sybil sat up in bed pondering what she should do on the morrow. How could she have been so foolish; so utterly naïve? She only had herself to blame for her present predicament Slamming shut her book of Shelley's poems, she tossed it carelessly aside. The book overshot the bed and landed on the wooden floor with a dull thud.

Closing her eyes she lay back on her pillow. A moment or two later and she sat up again. She pummeled the pillow back into shape. If only … But she knew only too well that by speculating on "ifs" and "might have beens" she was only prolonging the agony, tormenting herself to no good purpose, but even so she couldn't seem to stop.

Damn you, Tom for placing me in this position thought Sybil. But that wasn't entirely fair. After all, so much of the present situation was her fault too. What it came down to in the end was trust and if there was no trust...

She had made her decision.

Now, all she had to do was act upon it.

Her mind once made up, Sybil threw back the heavy, encumbering bedclothes, clambered out of bed, caught up her white lace shawl from off the back of the chair by the door, and, clasping it to her, wrapped it comfortingly around her slender shoulders.

Then, quietly opening her bedroom door, she looked out cautiously across the darkened landing towards Tom's room. Beneath his door there still yet gleamed a narrow strip of comforting lamplight. Good, thought Sybil, he must still be awake. Better to strike while the iron was hot, while she had the resolve to do what must now be done. To leave matters as they stood until morning would do neither of them any good; least of all herself.

Softly she crossed the landing.

Reaching the door to Tom's bedroom, she stopped. Should she knock? No that might … Instead taking a deep breath Sybil simply grasped and turned the door knob. The door opened quietly enough, swung back silently and slowly on its hinges. But then to her mortifying consternation and embarrassment, beneath her feet a floorboard suddenly creaked; the very same board which had betrayed Tom's presence there earlier that same evening. She froze, stood absolutely still.

Save for the soft, warm apricot glow cast by the lamp on his desk, the snug room was in complete darkness. Tom was seated at his desk busily writing, his back towards her, but a momentary glance was all that it took for Sybil to see that he was barefoot and wearing nothing more than his vest and trousers.

At the sound of the board creaking, Tom half turned in his chair and looked hesitantly towards the door of his room, to see, standing by the door, motionless in the shadows, Sybil, in her ivory white night gown and lace shawl, her dark hair spilling down over her shoulders like spun ebony. Tom also froze, mesmerised by the vision of loveliness before him.

If he says anything now thought Sybil, I won't be able to go through with this.

Then the tableau shattered into pieces.

For, so as to forestall Tom, moving quickly forward out of the lengthening shadows, Sybil swiftly closed the short distance between them and came to stand next to him by his desk. For his part, laying aside his pen, Tom gazed up at her, wonderingly, half fearful of what she would say to him.

"Downstairs, earlier tonight, I promised to let you know my decision in the morning" she said softly. Her voice was scarcely above the level of a whisper.

He nodded dumbly.

"Well then. Tomorrow's too long a time to wait". Sybil paused; looked down at him. There was, Tom thought, gazing up at her, an elusive quality in her voice, something off-key. It suggested what? Anger, disillusionment, mockery, rejection, or … He thought he saw a slight smile play about the corners of her mouth and with her next words knew his eyes had not deceived him.

"Tom, my love, I gave you my answer in the garage at Downton. And nothing … nothing which has passed between us here tonight changes that at all. Did you really think it would? Any of it?"

"You mean you still …"

"… love you and want to marry you? Yes, my love … my darling. Now more than ever. I fell in love with Tom Branson, not the Master of Skerries. All I want … all I've ever wanted ... is **you**, my darling. Do you remember what I said to you on that very first day here in Dublin, in Sackville Street, when you saw for yourself, for the first time, what the British army had done? About us being the future?"

Tom nodded.

"Well, my love, I meant what I said then. Every word of it. And while losing both your parents at such a young age was awful for you, the way you were treated at Skerries - by those who should have cared for you - was terrible, what you suffered here in Dublin before you found a home in Clontarf with Ma, with Ciaran and all the rest - that too, my darling is in the past. Let it remain there. Forget it. Let it go. Whatever you may think, none of it has any claim on you; nor on us. **We**, my love, what **we** make of our life together here in Ireland, **we** are the future".

Sybil gazed down at Tom, the warmth in her voice proof both of her sincerity and the depth of the love she felt for him.

"Jaysus", Tom said softly, almost in wonderment, his eyes bright and glistening. "I don't deserve you. Sybil, love, you're truly incredible".

And then, as she stood there before him, clad in nothing but her white nightgown and shawl, bathed in the warm glow of lamplight, slowly and ever more earnestly, Tom began to pay spoken homage to her as a woman; as his soul mate.

No-one, thought Sybil, as she stood there before him, basking in Tom's open adoration of her, **had **ever, indeed **could** ever, have spoken to anyone, in the way that Tom spoke to her now. She could never, for one moment, imagine her father ever speaking to her mother in this way and - here she smiled - certainly not, for all his urbanity and outward sophistication, Sir Richard Carlisle to her sister Mary.

"You're beautiful, Sybil" Tom concluded. "You're all a man …" Tom paused, corrected himself. "… all **this** man could ever want in a woman".

This intimate scene, played out in the stillness of Tom's quiet bedroom at the top of the small house in Clontarf on the shore of the Irish Sea, they would **both** remember down to the end of their lives. And, it was following Tom's spoken homage to her, that the relationship between the two of them changed forever. Subconsciously, each independent of the other, it was at this precise moment that they jointly realised the intense physical need they each now had of one another.

And, fully and jointly comprehending this shared need, ignorant of it as they both might once have been, or perhaps had pretended to be, as realisation slowly dawned upon each of them, however much they had both consciously, or subconsciously, tried to suppress it in the past, that had steadily, and inescapably, drawn them together, from the day of their very first encounter at Downton.

It was what had bound their lives inextricably together, leading inexorably and finally to this moment in time. And it was because of this, that suddenly the very air became charged with an overt sexual tension; one which neither of them could deny, nor ignore, for a moment longer.

As Tom finished speaking, in an entirely spontaneous gesture, but totally unaware of the effect it would have on him, Sybil let go her lace shawl, allowing it to slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor. Tom found himself all but spell bound, this time by the unintentionally sexually charged simplicity of her action.

Reaching out towards her with both hands, he swiftly drew Sybil down to sit in his lap. As she settled herself contentedly there in his enfolding arms, she felt his lips eager and hot against her own, gave herself gladly up to the fire within him, letting Tom burn kisses all along the curving line of her jaw, into the very hollow of her throat, down to the cool softness of her shoulders. For her part she kissed his forehead, his eyes, the tip of his nose, his cheeks, his lips, over and over again.

Their kisses grew ever deeper, ever more passionate.

Tom wrapped his arms about her even tighter, clasping her to him. Slowly, and with a mounting, pressing need of her own, Sybil began tugging Tom's vest out of the waistband of his trousers and slipped her hands up under it, caressing his skin with her fingers, running her hands up and over his chest. She grasped hold of the bottom of his vest, began teasing it upwards, kissing his exposed chest, his nipples. Realising what she intended, for one brief moment, Tom broke free.

No they mustn't.

Not yet.

It certainly had never been **his **intention to seduce **her**, but now here she was, so warm and lovely in his arms. And, it surely could never have been **her **intention to seduce **him**.

"Sybil … love … I … don't … think … we … should …" She swiftly silenced his words with the passion of her kisses. Realising that finally, after years of self-denial, they had both now reached the point of no return, a decision had to be made. A decision they would have to live with, for better or for ill.

And make it they did.

Together.

Deftly, scarcely parting their eager lips for an instant, Tom sought to help her. Reaching back behind him, he quickly pulled his vest up and over his head, throwing it down onto the wooden floor.

They had no need of words. A silent private message had passed between them. Teasingly, Sybil smiled back at Tom, her dark eyes deep and fathomless. Now, openly showing that she wanted him … oh **how **she wanted him …

Sybil began gently running her fingers over his half - naked body, kneading the firm muscles in his broad shoulders, his back, playing with the patch of soft fine light hairs in the middle of his chest, tugging at them gently but persistently, slipping her hands lower towards where the line of hairs thickened, darkened and disappeared from view beneath his trousers. Tom gasped. He found the touch of her fingers on his skin was electrifying.

Again his lips sought hers, crushing them with the intensity of his ardour. Sybil felt his hands cupping her swelling breasts tightly, and then lightly squeezing her taut nipples, caressing her thighs, probing gently between her legs through the flimsy virginal whiteness of her nightgown. For Sybil, previously unimagined feelings were now searing through her, stirring sensations within her which were almost unbearable in their intensity.

Tom gasped again at what she did next as Sybil's caressing hands moved lower, to his groin, found and grasped through his trousers, the hard and swelling proof of his urgent need of her. Momentarily shamed, Tom mumbled, "I'm sorry, love. I can't help …"

"Don't be my love ... don't be" said Sybil, her voice husky, almost inaudible. Any coyness, any embarrassment, any prudishness she might once have felt towards matters sexual related to the male of the species had long since been dissipated to the four winds by the purely clinical, purely professional experiences, she had encountered as a nurse during the war.

But now, insistently, with no holding back, Sybil's soft mouth eagerly sought Tom's. And this time, as their mouths met, she twisted round willingly in his encircling arms, tangling them both in the gossamer cloud of the tresses of her dark hair. The erotic intimacy of Tom's caresses became even more ardent, so much so, that they caused Sybil to arch herself against him with a sudden, involuntary drawing in of breath, uttering a cry of ecstasy that, as she spoke his name, slurred it almost beyond recognition.

And, by the time Tom lifted Sybil in his arms and carried her the few short steps to the waiting bed, if anyone had asked the question, neither of them would have found it possible to say which was the seducer and which the seduced.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

A Most Singular Indiscretion

Mr. Charles Carson the august, portly, and now distinctly grey haired butler of Downton Abbey was indisputably the one single individual to who befell the arduous task of presiding over the whole complex business of keeping the country house of the earl and countess of Grantham in perfect running order.

The inviolable and sacred repository of all manner of secrets of both the Crawleys and their household, affable without being familiar - that would never do - always both composed and imperturbable, Mr. Carson exuded a studied air of harmonious calm and unshakeable stability. Indeed, so effectively, and so unobtrusively, did he discharge each and every one of the countless myriad of matters which collectively made up his duties as butler to the Crawley family that Downton Abbey was well known to be one of the best ordered and run houses - if not the best ordered and run house - in this, the quiet north east part of the West Riding of Yorkshire.

Now aged sixty or thereabouts - he would never admit to his exact age - Mr. Carson had served the Crawley family loyally for the past forty years, arriving at the house in the late autumn of 1880, initially to take up the position of footman, and then thereafter serving as valet to the present Lord Grantham's father, the fourth earl, while he was still head of the family.

In 1892, upon the death of the fourth earl, his son and heir had kindly offered Mr. Carson the then vacant position of butler. It must be said that the previous occupant of the post, Mr. William Edley, had seemed immutable. Indeed, despite having held the post of butler to the Crawleys for some thirty years, he seemed unlikely to be willing to surrender the post any time soon.

It had, recalled Mr. Carson, been after church one Sunday morning that Mrs. Sorsby, the then housekeeper, had remarked that surely one could not be expected to take everything in the Bible literally. Take for example Methuselah who was supposed to have lived to the ripe old age of nine hundred and sixty nine years. As they came out from the church porch into the early autumn sunlight, glancing rather pointedly in the direction of Mr. Edley, Charles - or Charlie as he was then known to both the family and his fellow servants - had said that he found such an idea all too believable.

But as things turned out, Mr. Edley was not long for this world. Sometime in late November of that very same year, a severe chill, which rapidly grew worse, and then developed into pneumonia, finally accomplished what had once had seemed so unlikely. Very shortly thereafter, Mr. Edley was duly laid to rest in the quiet little churchyard attached to the parish church of Downton, in sight of both the family and the house which he had served so loyally for so many years.

Whilst outwardly regretting the tragic demise of Mr. Edley, which in the view of Charlie was very much long overdue, he was secretly delighted by the fortuitous turn of events which had now placed the post which he had coveted for so many years now firmly within his grasp. But, Charlie did not allow his pleasure at the prospect which opened before him to be read upon his august features and not for one moment did he let his customary mask of inscrutability slip.

Instead, having been offered the position of butler, Charlie had merely asked of His Lordship if he might have but a short while to carefully consider the matter; if His Lordship would be kind enough to grant him twenty four hours to think the proposal over. Naturally, His Lordship readily acquiesced in this regard, as Charlie had known that he would. Charlie would let His Lordship know his answer the following morning.

Of course, Charlie knew full well what his answer would be.

And so it was that but a little over twenty four hours later that, after a few moments conversation with His Lordship in the latter's study, Mr. Carson, as he would henceforth be known, accepted with alacrity the position of butler at Downton Abbey and immediately assumed the role which was his for the taking without any further ado or prevarication.

It was whilst sitting at his desk in his room below stairs one morning, early in June 1919, that Mr. Carson suddenly found himself remembering one especially taxing house party, which had taken place well before the Great War. On that occasion, amongst other guests, the Crawleys had played host to the Duke and Duchess of Dorset who in terms of noble precedence outranked their hosts in status requiring that protocol be strictly observed at all times.

Several of the other guests were American, on account of Her Ladyship's own antecedents: Mr. Frederick William Vanderbilt and his wife Louise of New York - Mr. Vanderbilt was the director of several American railroads, and Mr. William Russell Adams an American legislator and businessman and his wife Imogen, both from Boston, Massachussets.

Now why it was he should suddenly have recalled this particular house party all these years later, Mr. Carson really could not say. After all, since then, there had been so many others, some grander, some less so. Perhaps it was to do with the fact that one of the letters which had arrived in this morning's post, and which Mr. Carson had but recently sorted, was from the now widowed Sophia, Dowager Duchess of Dorset.

Her husband had died the year before the Great War had begun. Thereafter, when the war broke out in August 1914, the Duchess had been amongst the very first members of the aristocracy to establish a Red Cross Ambulance Unit in Belgium, which thereafter, in turn, was transformed into a British Red Cross Hospital Unit in France. Later the Duchess had been awarded the Belgian Royal Red Cross, the French Croix de Guerre and the British Red Cross for her efforts during the conflict.

Whether it was with this example firmly in her mind that Lady Sybil had taken her momentous decision to enroll as a nurse with the Red Cross in 1916, Mr. Carson could not, for certain, say. He suspected that the example of the Duchess may have played a minor part in Lady Sybil's decision - after all the Sackville-Germains were friends of her parents -, but no more than that, and that it had rather more to do with the machinations of Mrs. Isobel Crawley - who in Mr. Carson's own opinion - naturally unexpressed - was an interfering busybody.

On the occasion which Mr. Carson now called to mind, His Lordship had been kind enough to compliment him upon his meticulous organisation. There had been three dinner parties for upwards of thirty people, not to mention a shoot, and all had passed off so well that His Lordship had likened the whole smoothly run operation to the performance of a well oiled machine. It was at this juncture that one of the other guests, who, along with his wife, so as to be in time for the London train, was just making his farewells to Lady Grantham, and heard His Lordship's kind words.

That individual had been Mr. Bruce Ismay, at that time Chairman of the White Star Line. Mr. Ismay, too, echoed His Lordship's thoughtful words and had added that Mr. Carson was, in Mr. Ismay's estimation, as capable in his own way as the Commodore of the White Star Line. Whilst at the time, Mr. Carson had been inwardly flattered by the comparison he did not let his pleasure at Mr. Ismay's words show. Remaining both aloof and calm, other than a slight nod of his head, Mr. Bonham did what any self respecting butler would do: he merely demurred.

Sometime later, the self same Commodore, Captain Edward John Smith, had the singular misfortune to run his last command - RMS Titanic - into an iceberg on her maiden voyage in April 1912 and in the process, if only indirectly, thus causing the untimely deaths of two members of the Crawley family including His Lordship's heir. Mr. Carson therefore felt it was very much for the best, if Mr. Ismay's well meant comparison was best forgotten. After all, unlike the Titanic, Mr. Carson had no intention whatsoever of allowing the House of Grantham to founder.

Apart from the letter addressed to Her Ladyship from the Dowager Duchess of Dorset, there was one other item of post which, on that bright morning in June 1919, particularly caught the attention of Mr. Carson. And that was the letter addressed to him personally, bearing a Dublin postmark. As far as he was aware, Mr. Carson did not know anyone in Dublin; nor, if the truth be told did he want to, given what was apparently now unfolding over there across the sea in Ireland.

Of course he was painfully well aware, how could he not be, as indeed were they all below stairs, that Lady Sybil and her ... here Mr. Carson paused, then took an extremely deep breath ... fiancé Mr. Branson were now living in Dublin.

Mr. Carson pursed his lips, then inhaled and exhaled deeply. A singularly bad choice, thought he, not only of husband but also of a place in which to decide to live, given that if but half of what was being reported over here in England in the newspapers on almost a daily basis was true - and Mr. Carson saw no reason to disagree with the printed word - that matters were going from bad to worse over there in Ireland.

Good God, he wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that those demanding an independent Irish state were in league with the Bolsheviks in Russia. After all had not the Bolsheviks brutally murdered the Tsar and his immediate family less than a year ago? And were not those same lunatics demanding independence for Ireland seeking to remove His Majesty the King as Head of State? Why, it was too awful a prospect to contemplate.

Mr. Carson had few relatives - a younger brother who, with his family, had a farm down near Wells in Somerset and an elder unmarried sister who lived not that far away, in Scarborough over on the Yorkshire coast. It was true that he received letters from them, but only infrequently, birthday good wishes and at Christmas; and corresponded with them only by way of reply. So, who on earth could be writing to him from Dublin?

He carefully perused the envelope once more; held it up to the light. No, whilst there was something faintly familiar about the handwriting, as yet the individual who had penned it remained a mystery. Mr. Carson placed the envelope before him and drummed his fingertips on his desk. A lady's hand to be sure, But, not that of Lady Sybil. In any case, she would hardly write privately to the butler of her parents' own house. It simply wasn't done.

Then again, considering how far she had fallen socially both by her injudicious choice of future husband, anything was possible. And when, with her lineage and her looks, young Lady Sybil could have had the pick of the county. To marry a former chauffeur, who from all accounts now aspired to be a journalist? Dear, oh dear. Mr. Carson shook his head. Whatever next? Would Lady Mary take up with the grizzled publican who ran the Grantham Arms in the village? Would Lady Edith depart the hallowed halls of Downton to pursue a career on the London stage? "Ozymandias. King of Kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair" thought Mr. Carson.

Enough!

He reached for the paper knife lying on his desk, deftly slit open the envelope, and extracted the letter from within. Mr. Carson unfolded the neatly folded single sheet of paper. To his surprise, he found that the letter had been written from a place called Clontarf - no he had never heard of it - near Dublin, and but a matter of three days ago.

Still mystified, he read on.

"Dear Mr. Carson,

I hope you will forgive me the liberty of my presuming upon our old acquaintance ..."

The letter was signed by a Mrs. Hannah O'Rourke. Initially, the name meant nothing to him. "... presuming upon our old acquaintance ..." Then the proverbial penny dropped. Of course! When he had known her, she had been Hannah Wainwright. Hannah had been a housemaid here at Downton, when he was but His Lordship's valet. Well, well, well.

Hannah had left Downton to take a position with a family down near Cork, friends of His Lordship. What the devil had been their name? Tremayne! Yes, that was it. The Tremaynes of Curraghmore. Mr. Carson smiled, inwardly well satisfied. He prided himself on his ability to recall even the minutest detail of matters appertaining to the household here at Downton, including what had become of erstwhile employees. And to confirm that Mr. Carson was indeed correct in his recollection, later in her letter, Hannah asked if he had heard what had happened to the house "Curraghmore" of her former employers the Tremaynes? Set alight by the so-called Volunteers and burnt to the ground!

It transpired that long before the aforementioned incendiary outrage, Hannah had left service to marry an Irishman named O'Rourke, who, it transpired, worked as a farrier for the Oultons who rented the Clontarf Castle Estate, not far from Dublin, and lived in a tied cottage on the estate.

And now Hannah came to the point of her letter.

She was writing to Mr. Carson because, quite by chance, she had run into - "had an encounter" as she phrased it - with someone in Clontarf whom she felt convinced she recognised from the old days here at Downton. Hannah had been waiting in the grey light of a June morning to catch the first tram into Dublin, when a young woman dressed beneath her overcoat in a nurse's uniform, turned up at the tram stop along with a handsome young man whom Hannah did not recognise, but for all that looked familiar. In any event, he was obviously very much the young woman's "fancy piece". Here Hannah had added a remark, presumably detailing how she could tell this to be so; then, mindful of to whom she was writing, evidently thought better of it, and had neatly inked out the words which might possibly otherwise have given offence.

It was when the young man had spoken to the young woman, called her "Sybil" that Hannah's initial suspicions had been confirmed. The young woman was undoubtedly none other than Lady Sybil Crawley! Hannah was writing to Mr. Carson to ascertain whether she had been mistaken in her surmise.

The letter merited a response.

So, later, on the afternoon of that same day, having ascertained that the pieces of silver required for the dinner the Crawleys were hosting that evening had been cleaned and readied for service, finding himself with a few moments to spare, taking pen in hand, Mr. Carson once again sat himself down at his desk, this time to write a reply to Hannah.

Of course, even if he had known the precise details of where Lady Sybil was now living, he would never have divulged them, least of all to a former servant of the family.

However, Mr. Carson saw no harm, in fact none whatsoever, in merely informing Hannah that he believed - he would put it no stronger - that Lady Sybil had recently settled in Dublin. That she had become engaged to a penniless Irishman of no social standing whatsoever was not something to be noised abroad. On that particular subject, His Lordship and Mr. Carson were as one: it was totally unacceptable and the least said about the matter, the better.

But, by all but confirming to his erstwhile colleague that Lady Sybil was indeed now living in Dublin, Mr. Carson had broken the one, single, cardinal rule of one who considered himself to be in all respects the embodiment and personification of a good butler: that of continued discretion in all matters appertaining to the family he served.

He could not be blamed for not having foreseen it, but Mr. Carson's singular lapse in this regard was to have serious consequences for all of those most directly concerned.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"And Still They Gazed And Still The Wonder Grew"

After …

In the soft, warm, velvet darkness of the summer's night, they lay drowsy, naked in Tom's bed, listening to the sound made by the falling rain of the sudden storm, drumming upon the slate roof of the quiet house in Clontarf. Outside, while, for the time being, the insistent rain may have made the night its own, here within the secure confines of Tom's bedroom, in the intimacy of his bed, no-one, thought Sybil, not Ma, not Ciaran, not Donal, not Emer, not her parents, not granny, not Matthew, not Mary or Edith; nothing, not the weather, not society's disapproval, not the political tumult, nor the increasing violence, now engulfing Ireland, **could** ever, **would** ever, intrude upon the safety and sanctity of their private world.

Sybil snuggled back closer against Tom, who sighed contentedly and, if it were at all possible, sought to enfold her tighter within the comforting circle of his arms which rested just beneath her breasts. For her part, as she lay there, gently caressing her fingers up and down Tom's fore arms, Sybil, gradually, became conscious of an increasingly pleasurable drowsiness enveloping her entire body, giving herself over to a delightful free-floating sensation. It was as if her whole being had turned to liquid silk.

Earlier, despite their all-consuming ardour, for all their urgent need of one another, if the truth be told, Sybil had been somewhat apprehensive about their first moments in bed together. But, so as to spare her any lingering embarrassment born of her straitened upbringing, while she slowly divested herself of her nightgown, while Tom hurriedly discarded first his trousers and then his underpants, he had even taken the time to break reluctantly from her enfolding arms, to extinguish the lamp upon his desk.

In their love making which followed, there were moments of incredible tenderness, such as when Sybil found and then caressed the raised scars on his back, the lasting legacy of the beating Tom had received from his uncle. Sybil hugged him to her in her arms, his tear- stained face resting against her shoulder. And as Tom sobbed quietly against her shoulder, the origin of the scars suddenly dawning on her, Sybil kissed Tom's tear stained face over and over again.

"My love, my darling. My dearest, dear. It's over. It's done with. Gone for ever. Let the past go my love".

And, then, for the first time ever in his adult life, here, enfolded in the comforting arms of the woman he loved to distraction, God how he loved her, in the most intimate of lovers' embraces, at last, deep within him, Tom felt the agonized, heartbreaking memories of his stolen childhood begin to recede: to dwindle, to fade, to vanish beyond the point of either recall or remembrance. They could hurt him no longer. Now, he had thoughts only for Sybil who was moaning, enfolding him tightly in her protecting arms, raking his skin with her scouring nails. And then, Tom had no thoughts even of her; for nothing in fact, except drowning in the sheer physical sensations that were claiming his entire body.

For Sybil, the pleasures of their love making had been no less enjoyable, no less intense. Tom had been so gentle with her, calming her fears, as for that very first time they became one. He had been just as considerate of both her lingering fears and her needs, when they had made love again for the second time, but a short while later. And after, when he had enfolded her in his comforting arms, she felt the luckiest girl in the world.

And now, afterwards, and so as to cause the least disturbance possible, Sybil turned herself slowly in Tom's enfolding arms until she was facing him. She raised her head and kissed him fully on the lips, murmuring gently, "Tom I absolutely adore you".

Tom stirred softly.

Although he was by now half asleep, he opened an enquiring eye, raised his face to gaze at her, before resting his head back against Sybil's shoulder where, he made himself more comfortable, held her closer still if that were possible.

"Well, milady" he said sleepily, "it's just as well you do …" Here Tom stifled a satisfied, half yawn. "After what we've just done".

Why, thought Sybil, does he always have to be so infernally pleased with himself? Not that she really minded. Gently she batted Tom's chest, snuggled closer in his arms. God, she thought, why hadn't they let this happen earlier? But, on reflection, she felt sure, no knew for certain, that now had been the right time - for both of them.

Thereafter, until but a short while later, she fell asleep, Sybil gave herself over to reflect upon their forthcoming wedding now but a week or so distant, and to what she had but recently learned of Tom's past history.

Their wedding plans had proceeded very smoothly indeed. This was despite Sybil's earlier misgivings about the religious divide existing in Ireland between Catholic and Protestant, not that it was, to be truthful, something which they had discussed that much. Of course, it was true that there difficulties between those who professed different faiths in Ireland, but mixed marriages between Catholic and Protestant were quite common, and the religious divide in Dublin, while it existed, was rarely marked by violence.

All of that was, of course, before Tom had told about his childhood, and it eased matters enormously, to learn that Tom, the son of Anglo Irish parents, notwithstanding that his late mother had been French, whilst having been brought up a Catholic, did not profess much of a religious faith. Given what had happened to him in his boyhood, that, thought Sybil, was hardly surprising. No-one could criticise him for that, least of all herself.

And, while Tom readily assented to Sybil in her wish to be married in church as to opposed to in a civil marriage, to save any difficulties, Tom was quite content to be married in a Protestant, Church of Ireland ceremony; and it was upon that which they had, after some deliberation, decided. After all, from time to time, along with other members of the household staff, Tom had attended services with Sybil's family in the parish church at Downton, and was familiar with the rituals of the Anglican Church.

But, there was something else they had had to consider.

Before they had left for Ireland, both Tom and Sybil had agreed that while Ma, Ciaran, Donal, Emer and their spouses could not, should not, and would not, be kept in ignorance of Sybil's true antecedents, no-one else should know the whole truth.

Given the present situation in Ireland, if anyone found out Sybil's true parentage it would like as not place both her and Tom in serious danger. So, they had come up with a perfectly plausible story. Tom and Sybil had met where Tom had been employed in England and where Sybil had been working as a nurse. After all, there was no disguising the fact that Sybil was English and the story they had put together was not that far removed from the actual truth. But that Tom had been the chauffeur to Sybil's family in England and that Sybil was the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham was something which must be kept secret - for all their sakes.

It was not a question of lying, merely a case of refraining from volunteering information. After all, provided they did not advertise the fact, it was hardly likely that anyone here in the bustling city of Dublin, midst all the bubbling, swirling ferment of threatening insurrection, would pay any attention to the marriage of a handsome young reporter on the Irish Independent to a pretty dark haired young nurse now working at a hospital in one of the poorest parts of Dublin.

But there was no escaping from the fact, that Tom's revelations to her last night, now placed them in yet further danger. She could well see that no-one, not even her own family, must, for the time being, if ever, know anything of his connection to the Bransons from near Cork, nor of his ownership of what he had told her was, down in Munster (the southernmost of the four provinces which along with Ulster, Connaught and Leinster made up Ireland) known locally as the house on the strand: Skerries House.

Shortly afterwards, and while it was still yet dark, as the summer storm passed away, to the sound of the swish and whisper of fading rain, Sybil fell asleep, safe and secure in Tom's strong enfolding arms.

It was some hours later, the rain having ceased, with the coming of the dawn, outside, down on the still deserted seashore, that the last of the men who had taken it in turns to watch the silent house, turned up the collar of his rain flecked overcoat, extinguished his final cigarette, walked up on to the promenade, boarded the first tram of the day, and headed back into Dublin.

Although he could not have foreseen it, Mr. Carson's most singular indiscretion was shortly to bear extremely bitter fruit.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Through Streets Broad And Narrow

Looking back, Tom was to later blame the whole episode on their unforeseen visit to the National Gallery in Merrion Square on the south side of the city; that and his own innate generosity of spirit which had manifested itself in a heartfelt promise, readily made to Sybil shortly after their arrival in Dublin, that when they both had the time to do so, he would be very honoured to show her some of the sights of his adopted city.

The opportunity for Tom to make good his promise came unexpectedly the week before they were married, when on a fine summer's morning in late June 1919, Sybil took the tram from Clontarf down into the heart of the bustling city of Dublin where she was to meet Tom for lunch.

Over the last couple of days she had worked several extra shifts at the Coombe to help cover for a fellow nurse whose mother was dangerously ill and now the same nurse was working what would have otherwise been Sybil's day shift by way of recompense. Tom had gone into work earlier in the day, having arranged beforehand with Sybil that he would meet her off the tram beneath Nelson's Pillar and that they would then go for a bite to eat at Bewleys.

Although she managed to secure a seat on the open upper deck of the tramcar without any undue difficulty, by the time Sybil reached her destination, both up top and down below, the clattering green and white tram was filled virtually to capacity, so much so that she failed to notice the young man clad in a cloth cap and nondescript workman's clothing sat but two seats behind her.

With a wry smile, Sybil spared a brief thought for her eldest sister Mary who no doubt would have been absolutely horrified to find her youngest sister ensconced in such close quarters with the general hoi polloi. Sybil could hear her now:  
"Sybil, darling, it simply isn't done. Whatever will you do next? Marry the family chauffeur?"

"Well, Mary, as it so happens ... yes!"

Sybil smiled inwardly to herself as the tram clanged and rattled on its way into the heart of Dublin

However, given the stifling heat of summer and the press of bodies, even Sybil was very glad when at last she descended the curving narrow staircase down to the lower deck and climbed down off the tram close to Nelson's Pillar, as indeed did the cloth capped young man who had been sitting close behind her.

And, standing beneath the soaring Doric column surmounted by its figure of Lord Nelson victor of the Battle of Trafalgar, midst the ignoble strife of the madding crowds thronging round its base and spreading out in all directions along the wide thoroughfare that was Sackville Street, looking anxiously about him, handsome, dapper in his grey suit, cap in hand, there he was. Her Tom.

"Tom!"

"Sybil!"

They exchanged a brief kiss and then, chatting amiably, mingling unobtrusively with the crowds, they gently sauntered, arm in arm, southwards, past the blackened, burnt out ruins of the General Post Office, along the wreck of the broad sweep of what remained of Sackville Street, past the imposing statue of Daniel O'Connell with its four winged Victories, towards the Liffey river, which they crossed over by way of the O'Connell Bridge, bound for Bewleys on Westmoreland Street, and thereafter Trinity College the first of several sights which, unbeknown to Sybil, Tom planned to show her that afternoon.

"What is it, love?" asked Sybil with a laugh, when for the umpteenth time she caught Tom casting a quick sideways grin at her from under his thatch of light brown hair. Caught out, Tom smiled shyly back at her, then blushed scarlet, something which always made him look so much like a small boy; indeed endearingly so.

"It's nothing, really". His dark blue eyes sparkled as Tom cast another shy, sideways glance at Sybil.

"Really?" By her tone it was obvious that Sybil remained unconvinced.

"Really". Tom grinned at her shamefaced.

"Then why are you blushing Tom? Go on, tell me!" persisted Sybil with a giggle.

"It's just ..."  
"Just what, Tom? Out with it!"

"Well ... it's that I can't really believe it; that you're actually here with me. I know I've said it several times before, but Sybil, love, I absolutely adore you. I really do".

And now it was Sybil's turn to blush.

"I know you do, Tom" she said huskily. "I feel exactly the same way about you. And ... if my love you find it so difficult to believe that I'm really here with you, well perhaps this will help convince you".

So saying, there, in the middle of the O'Connell Bridge, beneath one of the tall, ornate cast iron gas lamps that graced its balustrades Sybil came to an abrupt and unexpected halt. Naturally Tom stopped too. In fact, so suddenly did they both come to a stand that despite the width of the pavement, several other pedestrians following close behind all but bumped into the two of them, some nearly losing their footing in the process, causing Tom and Sybil to be subjected to a barrage of abuse and scathing comments.

Standing there in the centre of the O'Connell Bridge, above the gently moving grey waters of the Liffey, midst the thronging crowd, with contemptuous, haughty, aristocratic disdain, completely oblivious to the consternation she had just caused, Sybil stood her ground.

"Tom Branson. Will you look at me?"

If but for a moment, oblivious to everything else, a pair of dark blue eyes gazed down into blue.

"Jaysus, Sybil, darlin', I love you so much!"

Sybil gazed up at Tom, her blue eyes sparkling, black as midnight, suffused with smouldering desire.

"Then kiss me, you idiot!" Sybil flung her arms tightly about Tom's neck and insistently drew his head down towards her own.

Tom did not need to be told twice. Swiftly he pulled off his cap, enfolded her slim figure tightly to him in his strong arms. With a shaft of sunlight catching a gleam in his hair, Tom closed his mouth hard upon hers; equally oblivious to the raucous cheers of the passengers on top of a passing tram and piercing wolf whistles from two young street urchins who, unbeknown to the driver, had cheekily hitched a free ride on the back of a drayman's cart heading southwards over the bridge.

It was several moments before they broke apart.

"Now are you convinced?" asked Sybil with a radiant smile, wholly unashamed of their open, public display of private affection. Not of course that Mary would have approved. Sybil's smile broadened. She could hear Mary again:

"Sybil, it really isn't done you know. It's so middle class".

"Penny for them, love?" asked Tom with a chuckle.  
Sybil shook her head and laughed.

Tom grinned back at Sybil.

"Well, I'm convinced if only for the time being. But somehow I think I shall need convincing again before too long!" laughed Tom. "Now let's get something to eat". And arm in arm chatting merrily, the two of them set off along Westmoreland Street bound for Bewleys café.

Having told Sybil that he did not have to be back at the Independent until later that same afternoon, after a lunch of cottage pie, followed by gur cake, and washed down with ginger beer - Tom still had a couple of articles to proof and said he needed a clear head with which to do so, they had a couple of hours all to themselves unless of course anything unexpected happened. Dublin had increasingly come to resemble nothing less than a simmering cauldron of agitation and dissent which threatened to boil over at any minute. That being the case, there was always the possibility that something untoward might occur, but if and until that happened they had the next couple of hours to themselves.. So it was then that Tom suggested he make good on his promise and show her some of the sights of the city, to which proposal Sybil readily assented.

Their first port of call that afternoon was Trinity College which lay nearby and which, Tom proudly informed Sybil, was Ireland's oldest university. Founded in 1592, its main buildings constructed of both limestone and granite, and ranged round a series of large quadrangles known as "squares", Sybil was immediately much taken with the place. As they wandered round the quiet sunlit squares, Sybil remarked that the whole place exuded an air of both calm and scholarship and was delighted to find Trinity had been admitting women through its hallowed, imposing, grey stone portals since as long ago as 1904.

Tom agreed and pointing out the Old Library told Sybil that among other treasures it contained The Book of Kells, a manuscript dating probably from the eighth century and one of Ireland's oldest books,

"Mind you, love, I expect Mary thinks none of us over here in Ireland can either read or write!" chuckled Tom, adding that the Library also held the harp of Brian Boru who as Sybil now knew ...

".. died winning the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 against Viking invaders. You see Tom, I do listen to what you tell me" said Sybil and laughed.

"Where to now?" she asked as they walked across College Green.

""What about the National Gallery" suggested Tom. "?It's not very far". As later events were to prove, Tom was to regret his suggestion more than once.

The National Gallery of Ireland was in Merrion Square, but a short walk from Trinity College. Perhaps the finest square in all Dublin, three sides of Merrion Square were occupied by tall, elegant, flat fronted Georgian town houses built of mellow red brick, and owned by some of Dublin's most prosperous and wealthiest residents. As they walked over towards the National Gallery, Sybil said that the square reminded her very much of Grantham Place up in London which, was where her own family's townhouse stood.

On the fourth side of Merrion Square stood the imposing buildings which made up Leinster House and which now housed the National Gallery of Ireland and the Natural History Museum. Among its many exhibits, the museum contained a large number of stuffed and mounted Irish mammals. Given half a chance, Tom said that he was certain that Lord Grantham would only be too pleased to make it his personal crusade to ensure that his erstwhile chauffeur and future son-in-law joined that part of the museum's collection on a permanent basis!

"Well, I'd happily still come and see you, even if Papa had had you stuffed and mounted in a glass case", said Sybil breezily. "Perhaps the museum authorities could be persuaded to put you on display in your old chauffeur's uniform. Mind you, I do wonder what the exhibit label would have to say ... about how they came to acquire you". She grinned broadly.

"Is that really supposed to make me feel any better?" asked Tom glumly, as the pair of them strolled into the entrance hall of the grand building.

After an hour or so of wandering around, having admired many of the numerous drawings, pictures, and pieces of sculpture, by Dutch, French, Italian, Spanish, and even Irish artists, they found themselves in a quiet part of the building looking at a series of detailed pencil sketches made by an Irish artist by the name of Patrick Hennessy. It was then that Sybil made the first surprising revelation of the day; that she enjoyed sketching herself.

"That's something you've never told me" said Tom. "Are you any good at it?"

"Well, self praise is no praise" said Sybil, "but yes, I like to think so".

"What do you like drawing?"

"Anything really. Much the same as these". Sybil indicated the sketches in front of them with an expressive broad sweep of her hand. "Still life, flora, fauna, landscapes. Whatever takes my fancy. And people too".

"You mean ... like **these**? **All** of them?" Tom sounded aghast.

"Yes".

"Really?"

"Of course. Why ever not?"

Sybil glanced at Tom and saw that his face had suddenly gone bright red; he seemed not to know where to look for the best. It was only when Sybil glanced back at the sketches that she realised the reason why. Several of them were of nudes, mainly female, in which Tom had taken a close and obvious interest. However, included in the group was a pair of frontal studies of two seated and decidedly naked young men. The artist had left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Why Tom! Whatever is the matter?"

"How did he ... the artist ...I mean ..." Tom swallowed hard.

"How did he what, Tom?"

"Er ... draw them ... like that!" spluttered Tom indignantly.

"Oh that!" said Sybil dismissively. "Like the girls, I expect they probably posed for him".

"Well you'd not catch me doing that. It's not right".

"What about the girls?"  
"Well that's different".

"No it isn't".

"Yes it is".  
"So you think it's perfectly acceptable for young women to take off their clothes and pose naked for an artist for the sake of art, but that it's not right for young men to do the same?"

"Yes" said Tom at length and with heartfelt conviction.

"What about equality of the sexes, Tom?"

Tom said nothing, unwilling to meet Sybil's gaze or answer her question.

"Why Mr. Branson, I do believe you're embarrassed!" laughed Sybil.

"You're damned right I am. Aren't **you**?"

"No, of course not! Oh, Tom! And nor should you be either. After all, during the war, I saw large numbers of naked men". Tom's eyes widened perceptibly at yet another startling revelation from Sybil.

"In my professional capacity of course" she added hurriedly.

"Of course" echoed Tom lamely.

"During operations especially. That apart, I had to change bandages and dressings, as well as help bathe and wash those too badly injured to be able to do such simple tasks for themselves".  
"Did you mind?"

"There was no question of minding, Tom. It was just something I had to do. I got used to it and I got on with it. Anyway, I've seen you like that! So what's there to be embarrassed about?"

"Well, that's altogether different" retorted Tom shamefaced.

"No it isn't".

"Yes it is".

"Oh Tom, really!"

"Well have it your own way, but like I say, you'd not catch me posing like that!"

Honestly, thought Sybil. Men!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Sunday Excursion

Ma had returned to the house in Clontarf late the following morning, long after both Tom and Sybil had left for work. So it was not until their return home on the evening of the same day that they learned that young Ruari was likely to make a full recovery from the injuries he had sustained in his fall from the hay loft out at the farm; which, his broken arm apart, were comparatively minor, given what might have been. And with her, Ma also brought an invitation

So it was, that after their more or less spur-of-the-moment visit both to Trinity College, and thereafter to the National Gallery in Merrion Square, the following Sunday, in response to the heartfelt invitation from Ciaran and Aislin, that Ma, Tom and Sybil found themselves out at the farm on the Clontarf Castle estate for a meal at midday.

When Sybil asked how far it was to the farm, Tom laughed said it was a beyont sort of a place. She looked quizzically at him.

"You'd say back of beyond" said Tom with a grin.

After church, accompanied by his eldest boy Ruari, still with his arm in a sling after his fall, Ciaran came over for them all in the waggonette and took them out to the farm. They arrived slightly later than intended owing to one of the two horses pulling the waggonette having cast a shoe, necessitating a stop at the estate forge on the way over.

The weather remained hot and sultry, with the threat of thunder in the air, or as Ciaran termed it "fierce warm" and added that it was so hot that the "sun be splittin' the stones".

Having helped both Ma and Sybil into the back of the brightly painted waggonette, Tom clambered up onto the front box seat next to Ciaran, while Ma in her Sunday best and Sybil made themselves comfortable opposite young Ruari in the back of the four-wheeled vehicle. The previous evening Tom had said that the countryside round the farm was very picturesque, so Sybil had rummaged in her trunk, found her sketchbook and pencils, and brought them along with her.

With the growing warmth of the steadily rising sun rapidly lifting the mist from off the grass, with bright sunlight dappling through the hanging boughs of the trees above their heads, to the jingling clink of harness, the rumble of wooden wheels, and the steady clip clop of heavy shod hooves, they set off.

It soon became only too obvious that in young Ruari, Sybil had found herself a young admirer. At thirteen, Ruari was on the cusp of manhood, his voice just breaking. Casting furtive sideways glances at her from under a thatch of black hair throughout the entire journey, whenever Sybil tried to engage him in conversation, to ask him what he did on his parents' farm, the poor lad found himself tongue-tied. Like on occasion, Tom was wont to do, Ruari blushed furiously and looked anywhere else than at Sybil. Sensing the poor boy's embarrassment, wisely Sybil forbore from trying to engage him in conversation, sat back on her seat, and enjoyed the gentle, unhurried pace of the leisurely journey out to Ciaran's farm, while young Ruari chatted with his grandmother.

When, as inevitably he did, Tom became aware of what had been happening behind him, he laughingly took the whole business in his stride, from time to time turning round on his seat up on the box to look at Ruari, then to grin broadly at Sybil. Eventually, having left the coast and the straggling increasingly suburban village of Clontarf far behind them, Ciaran deftly turned the two glossy black white fetlocked Shires pulling the rumbling waggonette off the metalled road and onto a narrow unmade lane which led on up to the white walled reed thatched farmhouse buried deep in the verdant, countryside of County Dublin.

The meal which followed their arrival at the farm was an extremely convivial, if noisy, lively, boisterous affair and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the strictly regimented, staid luncheons to which Sybil was accustomed at Downton Abbey. Ciaran and Aislin's brood of five children, even Riordan the youngest, all took turns in their various ways in vying for the undivided attentions of both their Uncle Tom and "Aunt" Sybil.

Before they sat down to eat, seated in the window seat in Ciaran and Aislin's homely kitchen, overlooking the farm yard, Tom had found himself assailed from all sides by his nephews and nieces and soon took on the appearance of the Pied Piper of Hamlin with Riordan seated on his lap while his two nieces Aine and Aoibheann sat on either side plying him with questions. For her part, Sybil was dragged outside to meet the horses by Ruari - who by now had overcome his shyness - and Ronan; who between them had fought for the privilege of carrying her suitcases upstairs for her when she had first arrived at Ma's house in Clontarf.

"Know what Tom" chuckled Ciaran,

"No. What?" asked Tom. He looked up somewhat perplexed.

"Some day you're going to make a wonderful father, but in the meantime if you want to take any of this lot off our hands, you'd be more than welcome!"

It was after the meal was over when it happened.

The two girls were inside in the kitchen helping Ma do the washing up, across the yard, Ruari, ably aided by Ronan, were feeding and watering the two cart horses, while Sybil, Tom and Ciaran were all sitting outside on a bench resting their backs against the sun kissed stone of the south facing wall of the farmhouse. Beside them, on a ladder back chair brought out from the kitchen, sat Aislin with Riordan on her knees. To the delight of Ruari and Ronan, Sybil had already made sketches for them of several of the farm's chickens, and had now all but finished a pencil drawing of their happy, gurgling little brother dapper in his white muslin sun bonnet. As it had progressed, Aislin, who had taken great interest in Sybil's sketch of her youngest, said she hadn't realised how talented Sybil was.

Sybil thought differently. She demurred and said so.

"I don't think I'll ever make a very good cook".

"Oh, don't be worrying about that" said Aislin. "You'll be picking it up fast enough, Sybil. You'll have to. Mark my words, Tommy gets grumpy if he isn't fed!"

"So I've noticed", said Sybil and laughed.

"She's a fast learner too, Aislin" chuckled Tom.

"I don't be doubting it Tommy. Bright as a button this one". Aislin patted Sybil's knee reassuringly. "And Ma's a very good cook and a good teacher I'll be bound. You've done well my lad in biding awhile before deciding to wed, and in choosing Sybil here, why you've struck lucky, make no mistake". At Aislin's kind words, Sybil blushed furiously.

"But to be able to be drawing like that now" said Ciaran pointing to Sybil's now almost completed sketch of Riordan, "why tis a rare God given gift to be sure".

"Not that these days I usually have any time to sketch any more", said Sybil regretfully. "Why last year, even when I was nursing at ..."

"Whoa! What did you just say Aislin? Say that again", asked Tom. Despite the heat of the day, despite the seeming ordinariness of Aislin's words, for one unguarded moment, Tom suddenly felt himself go very cold, felt his heart begin to beat in queer fits and starts. Sybil too had heard only too clearly what Aislin had just said, for she stopped drawing, her pencil poised in mid air. At the same time noticing immediately the change in Tom, her eyes became full of concern.

"Darling, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, love. It's just the heat". He was lying of course, and even if the others didn't realise it, Sybil did. After all, Tom was probably the world's worst liar; he could never mask his true feelings.

"The heat?" laughed Ciaran. "Why Tommy, England must have made you soft, lad. You always loved the sun!"

Tom smiled thinly, said nothing, and remained tight lipped.

"Ciaran told me that Mrs. O'Rourke on the estate here thinks she knows your Sybil", repeated Aislin patiently.

Tom and Sybil exchanged meaningful glances over Riordan's bonnet. When in Clontarf, by mutual agreement, they both kept themselves very much to themselves; they certainly had no dealings with anyone from off the Clontarf Estate. Oblivious to the effect that her seemingly innocuous remark had on both Tom and Sybil, unconcerned, Aislin continued to bounce young Riordan on her knee, while Sybil tried to resume her sketching, making the last finishing touches to her drawing of the little boy.

"But how ..." began Tom.

"I suppose ... from my work at the hospital, Tom", replied Sybil dispassionately and with a seeming equal unconcern to match that of Aislin.

"Oh, no. Not that at all for sure", replied Aislin. ""Why, her child bearing days be done with. She's nigh on fifty!"Aislin laughed and continued to make eyes at little Riordan.

"Who the hell is Hannah O' Rourke anyway?" demanded Tom.

"Language Tom", said Aislin sharply. Tom flushed.

"The blacksmith's wife", explained Ciaran.

"So how does **she **come to know Sybil, if not from her work at the Coombe?" asked Tom somewhat mystified.

"It's nothing to be doing with her work at the Coombe, Tommy lad. Her husband told me his wife said she knew Sybil from when she were a girl", said Ciaran.

"From when Hannah was still in service", added Aislin by way of further explanation.

Tom and Sybil's eyes met once again over Riordan's bobbing little head.

"Where exactly was she in service?" asked Sybil, trying desperately to keep her voice neutral.

"Somewhere down near Cork, or so I be understanding. Least that be what Seamus told you, wasn't it now Ciaran?"

Ciaran nodded.

"Well, that's bloody absurd", said Tom.

"Tom, language!" said Sybil as sharply as Aislin had done moments before. "Sorry" he mumbled. "But Sybil's never ever been to Cork! Why, until a few weeks ago she'd never even set foot in Ireland". He looked across at Sybil for confirmation, who merely nodded, then shrugged her shoulders.

"She must be mistaking me for someone else" said Sybil calmly.

"I suppose she must" said Aislin.

"That's the only possible explanation", said Tom and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief, felt the rhythm of his heart begin to steady. At this point, having finished feeding and watering the horses, Ruari and Ronan came running across to them from the other side of the farmyard, and the awkward moment passed.

Of course, if earlier that same day Ciaran had bothered to pay rather more attention than he had done to what it was that Seamus O'Rourke was saying to him about Sybil, then things might have turned out somewhat differently. However, what with the sweltering heat both in and outside the forge, let alone the deafening noise, already late and impatient to be off down into Clontarf to collect Ma, Tom, and Sybil, Ciaran hadn't really bothered to listen to what Seamus had been saying.

And, after all, reasoned Ciaran and Aislin later that evening when they were in bed, how on earth could it possibly matter to anyone, least of all to Sybil herself, whether or not Hannah O'Rourke had known her at some time in the distant past? The answer to that was that it most certainly did matter, as events were very shortly to demonstrate and in a way that none of them sitting outside in the warm afternoon June sunshine could ever possibly have imagined.

"Are you goin' to be showing Sybil the Rainbow Pool before tea then Tommy? It's a rare and beautiful place to be sure", said Ciaran. "Why I taught him to dive there, Sybil. From off the ledge. You remember, don't you Tommy? And all the fuss you made, about havin' no bathing suit. I made him dive in all the same, as naked as the day he were born!"

"Uncle Tom went swimming ...**without** a bathing suit?" chorused both Ruari and Ronan, not quite believing what it was they were hearing.

Sybil giggled, Aislin too, while Tom blushed furiously.

"Thanks, Ciaran. Thanks a lot!" said Tom.

"So, you goin' to show her or not?" asked Ciaran.

"Of course", answered Tom. "That is ... if she'd really like to see ..."

"See what? You or the pool?" interrupted Sybil archly. She grinned broadly at Tom, could hear her grandmother saying: "Sybil, vulgarity is no substitute for wit". Maybe not though Sybil, but there was no denying the fact that it was so much more fun!

"Why the pool you little minx!" growled Tom.

They all roared with laughter at that, Ruari and Ronan joining in too, thankfully blissfully unaware of what it was that was making all the grown-ups so singularly amused, and Ma, Aine, and Aoibheann, came out to see what all the fuss was about.

"Why, of course I would, Tom. After all, you've told me so much about your enchanted pool!" laughed Sybil.

"Ench ...Well, I'm not sure if I be knowing what that means, but it be a grand place for sketching all the same!" said Ciaran with a grin.

"Then what are we waiting for, Tom?" asked Sybil and laughed again. She had, she reflected, never felt happier, with Tom by her side, and made so welcome by this loving family now gathered here together in the sunlit farmyard midst the beautiful, rolling countryside of County Dublin .


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

At The End Of The Rainbow

As the skylark soared on the wing ever higher into the azure blue of the summer sky, arm in arm, Tom and Sybil ambled gently across the close cropped turf, past where a herd of black cattle grazed contentedly, towards the far side of the field where a stile provided access through to the open countryside beyond. Tom scrambled lightly over it, turned, and waited attentively for Sybil to do the same.

"Of course, I don't suppose it will seem half as magical to you as it did to me when I was a boy" said Tom ruefully from the other side of the stile.

"Well, even if it doesn't, it obviously still means a very great deal to you, Tom, and I would love to see it all the same" retorted Sybil. "It's part of your past".

"And the past is myself" said Tom softly. He smiled, and then paused. In the silence that followed, Sybil saw that once again Tom was staring off into the distance, over her left shoulder; on his face she saw the same strange, faraway look which she had seen several times before.

"Tom?"

The sound of her voice seemingly had the effect of jolting him out of his reverie and back to the present.

"Hm?" Tom smiled at her.

"Oh, nothing. It doesn't matter". Sybil returned his smile. "Now, Branson, are you going to help me over this stile, or not?" She grinned; held out her hand to him.

"Certainly, milady" said Tom with mock obsequiousness. He smiled back, grasped her proffered hand, and then swiftly and deftly assisted her over the stile.

For the time being at least, normality, or at least what passed for it, had resumed.

The day was still hot and drowsy, and they had now long left the fields of Ciaran's farm far behind. Hand in hand Tom and Sybil made their way along a narrow track which wound along a shallow valley. Here the strong scent of bracken was almost overwhelming; the white topped meadowsweet grew waist high, droning with clouds of flies. Every now and then ahead of them a rush of brown darted across their path, as yet another startled rabbit skittered out from the dense stands of bracken. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, the path began to climb, wending its way between a scatter of trees, of hawthorn and mountain ash. Tom half turned to smile shyly back at Sybil, as gently he led her ever onwards towards the pool of which he had spoken so lovingly.

"Not far now" said Tom.

Indeed so did it prove to be the case, and but a short while later they emerged from beneath the shade of the sheltering trees onto a short stretch of open greensward. Ahead of them, almost lost to sight in a dense brake of hawthorn was a low, grey, ivy clad cliff, perhaps twenty or so feet high, over which the stream spilled in a foaming waterfall, swiftly tumbling through a jumble of moss grown rocks to splash into an almost circular pool fringed with fern; thereafter to trill over a rocky lip and wend its way onwards down the valley up which they had walked. Sunlight glinted off the foaming fall of water producing an iridescent kaleidoscopic wealth of many coloured hues which, thought Sybil, must be why they call it the Rainbow Pool.

"With what deep murmurs, through Time's silent stealth,  
Doth thy transparent, cool, and wat'ry wealth, Here flowing fall"

"Shelley?" asked Tom with a grin.

"No" said Sybil. "Henry Vaughan, a Welsh poet".

Save for the sound of the waterfall, the silence was completely unbroken.

"Well, this is it" said Tom with a sideways glance at Sybil. He indicated the tranquil scene now before them with a gentle spread of his hand.

"What do you think?" he asked softly.

But before Sybil could answer there was a sudden flash, a blur of colour, she thought of brown and grey, and beating wings swept low across the surface of the pool.

"Kestrel!" said Tom.

"How on earth do you know that?" asked Sybil, genuinely amazed once again by Tom's unexpected store of knowledge.

"For my tenth birthday, my mother bought me a book on birds. I spent hours looking at it, learning all their names, about their plumage, their nests, their feeding habits ..."

Sybil glanced about her. A more peaceful and tranquil spot was hard to imagine. This certainly was far from the maddin' crowd.

"So, what do you think?" asked Tom again.

"Why, my darling, I think it's absolutely enchanting". Sybil flung her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. "Thank you! Thank you for bringing me here!"

"My pleasure!" Tom grinned at her, his eyes sparkling.

"And, if leprechauns do exist I'm sure they'd choose somewhere like this to live!" laughed Sybil.

Tom smiled broadly.

That Sybil clearly found the bathing pool and its immediate surroundings to be as beautiful and magical a place as he had all those years ago as a young boy pleased him enormously. He pulled out his watch from his waistcoat pocket; looked at the time.

"We don't have to start back yet; at least not for a while". Tom pushed his watch back into his pocket. "You must be tired, love. Do you want to sit down?" he asked solicitously. Without waiting for Sybil to reply, he slipped off his jacket and spread it out for her on the short sun-warmed grass.

Sybil did as he suggested and sat down on his jacket, then slipped off her shoes, and stretched out her legs. Tom squatted down beside her.

"And that, that over there" he pointed towards a series of rough steps hewn in the rock, "that's the way down to the ledge. Yes, that's it, off from where Ciaran taught me to dive".

Sybil looked over to where he was pointing.

"Wasn't that rather dangerous? It looks very narrow".  
"No. Of course not. The pool's quite deep, and as for the ledge, why, it's much wider than it looks from here. Do you mind if I go and explore? See if I can still get down to it? Will you be all right here, if I do?" Tom stood up, grinning down at here, the sunlight catching a gleam of gold in his hair.  
"I'll be fine". Sybil nodded. "Why are you going in for a swim?" She laughed.

"Hardly. No bathing suit!" said Tom. He sounded somewhat wistful.

"Well, from what Ciaran said, that didn't stop you when you were here before!" giggled Sybil.

"Sybil, I was **thirteen** at the time!" pointed out Tom mortified. He flushed bright red to the roots of his hair at her suggestion.

"I'd ask you to come with me, but the last time we were here, the track ... down to the steps ... well, it was frightfully overgrown!"

"Go on, off with you".

"Wait for me?" asked Tom with a merry twinkle in his eyes.

"Of course" laughed Sybil. "What else have I to do except wait for you? Although, come to think of it, I might just try and do a sketch of this place while you're exploring. Mind you, I doubt I will do justice to it".

"I'm sure you will. Aislin was really taken with the sketch you did of Riordan back at the farm". Tom laughed out loud as Sybil pulled a face at him. She was already searching for her sketchbook and pencils.

"I'll be back in half an hour or so".

Sybil smiled up at him.

"All right".

Happy as a sand-boy, whistling merrily, Tom set off jauntily down the track. And as she watched him go, Sybil reflected thankfully that some of his childhood memories were happy ones. The sound of Tom's footsteps dwindled, faded; was gone.

Resting herself on the palms of her out-splayed hands Sybil sat back and gazed about her. When she had told Tom that this seemed an almost magical place, she had not been speaking entirely in jest. All about her she could hear the buzzing drone of countless insects. There were rabbits too, running across the short grass beyond her, scuttering in and out of the sweet smelling bracken. Scarlet and emerald damsel and dragon flies darted and hung motionless poised above the surface of the water. There was a sudden flash of bright blue as a kingfisher dived into the dark depths of the pool, only to emerge moments later, sparkling in the sunlight, bejewelled with minute droplets of crystal clear water, and with a wriggling silver fish twisting helplessly in its beak. The kingfisher flew off and disappeared amongst the grey green reeds fringing the pool. And, above the myriad sights and sounds to Sybil's ears there came the continuous, almost hypnotic, sound of running water.

Later...

Although by now it was late afternoon, the sun was still high and warm on the back of her neck. Sybil could hear Tom coming back through the trees towards her. She yawned; lay back on his jacket, breathing in his scent, linking her hands behind her head. A moment or two later and Tom emerged from out of the thicket of holly and mountain ash and dropped down on the short turf beside her.

"Miss me?" he asked with a self-satisfied grin. He leaned in for a kiss to which she readily responded.

"What do you think?" asked Sybil when they broke apart. "Tom, your hair's all damp!"

"It's only spray from the waterfall" said Tom.

"Did you manage to get down to the ledge? I suppose I ... I must have dozed off ... in the sun".

"You know me", chuckled Tom. He nodded. "No sketch of the pool then?"

"Of the pool? No". Sybil shook her head. She smiled broadly at him.

"Pity. Well, never mind. They'll be other opportunities to draw this place I'm sure", said Tom.

"I'm sure there will", echoed Sybil.

"You ready to set off back?" Tom held out his hand toward her, helped her up to her feet, then reached down, and retrieved his jacket, swinging it nonchalantly back over his left shoulder. Then, arm in arm, they set off along the path towards the distant farm.

"This has been a beautiful day, one that I will never forget", said Sybil with a dazzling smile. Gently, she rested her head on his shoulder as, clutching her sketchbook firmly under her arm, they walked back into the farmyard to find Ciaran and young Ruari already hitching up the waggonette for the return journey back to Clontarf and to be met by the younger children running over to them, to drag both Sybil and Tom inside the reed thatched farmhouse for tea.

Later that night, as Sybil snuggled down in bed, her sketchbook lay safely hidden beneath her pillow. And like the drawings by Patrick Hennessy that they had both seen in the National Gallery in Dublin, Sybil's sketch of Tom left nothing to her imagination.

She had caught him naked, seated on the rocky ledge from where but a short time earlier he must have dived into the pool below; absent-mindedly absorbed in drying his tousled hair with his flannel vest, his arm outstretched. Drops of water glistened on his pale skin. Tom looked radiant, carefree, glowing with both health and happiness. Later, much later, Sybil was to be thankful that she had drawn him as he looked now.

Tom was gazing directly in Sybil's direction, over to where she had been sitting when he had left her, believing her to have fallen asleep; unaware of course, that to avoid the full glare of the afternoon sun she had, albeit temporarily, moved back under the fringe of the sheltering trees. In no sense was the portrait posed. After all, how could it have been, when Tom had been so singularly unaware that Sybil was sketching him from her covert vantage point? And it was the total lack of self-consciousness on his part, which gave the sketch of him such a rare vitality.

Sybil did not believe in deceit and would of course show Tom the sketch ... eventually. But not yet. After all, Tom had asked her if she had sketched the pool and to that she had replied truthfully enough; that she had not.

I wonder, thought Sybil. In years to come, if one day the Irish National Gallery will ever display some of my sketches? And if it does, and I feel mine of Tom to be at all idealised ... why then, I will have the living proof lying right next to me with which to compare it!

And with that comforting thought, hugging both her pillow and sketch book closely to her, Sybil yawned, turned out her lamp, and drifted off to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

A Decision Is Made

Apart from the wan light cast by the dirty oil lamp on the bare table, the quiet back room of Quinlan's bar was in complete darkness, the air foetid, thick with the reek of cigarette smoke. The man seated at the table broke off from considering the facts set down in the detailed manuscript report before him, glanced furtively up at the clock ticking on the wall, and with apparent distaste eyed the disassembled parts of the Mauser pistol before him. A moment or two later and there was a cautious knock at the door.

"Yes?" he barked. His eyes snapped up as another man, thick-set, heavily built, sweating profusely, smoking, came in closing the door to the bar quietly behind him.

"And?" asked the man seated at the rickety table which served as his desk.

"They're all agreed about that feckin' bastard Branson but as for the girl ... they're still ..."

"What? Having a feckin' vote about it? For Christ's sake man! Tis her feckin' kind have oppressed us for centuries".

"Some of them ... some aren't happy about killing a woman, let alone a nurse".

The ringing of the telephone on the desk momentarily precluded any further consideration of the matter under discussion. The man who had just come into the room lifted the receiver from its cradle, and put the 'phone to his ear.

"Yes, yes ... I'll let him know". He coughed raucously, fumbled nervously, as he replaced the telephone.

"It's both of them," he said quietly.

The man seated at the table nodded.

"I could have told you that," he said, as calmly and methodically he began putting together the pieces of the disassembled pistol.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

A Fatal Encounter

When Sybil caught sight of the young fox, it was, of course, already too late. When she saw him, the fox was sitting stock-still in a gap in the hedge, absolutely motionless, with unblinking eyes, apparently watching the hitherto empty ribbon of dry, dusty road which lay before him.

Then, up ahead of the motor, there was sudden, unexpected movement in the green veil of darkness beneath the trees overhanging the lane just before it traversed the narrow three arched stone bridge which they had crossed earlier on their outward journey over to Howth from Clontarf.

Almost at the very last moment, five armed men stepped silently out from the lengthening shadows, right in the path of the oncoming motor car, forcing Tom to swerve sharply, blaring on the horn as he did so, slamming his foot hard on the brake pedal, and slewing the heavy motor violently to the left so as to avoid ploughing straight into them.

The evening's jaunt out to Howth had only come about because earlier in the day Edmund Kelly, a colleague of Tom's at the Indy, on learning that Tom knew how to drive, had offered him the loan of his motor, a powerful, grey bull nosed Morris Oxford, to enable Tom to more easily cover a meeting of railway workers being held in Kilmainham which lay south of the Liffey and west of the city centre.

To continue functioning effectively, the British Administration based at Dublin Castle could not afford for the railway network in Ireland to be disrupted, and so as to help ensure this there was also a high military presence in the same district; as well as the ever present reminder of the failure of the Easter Rising in the shape of Kilmainham Gaol where the leaders of the abortive Rising had been summarily executed. All things being equal, it looked very likely that there well might be serious trouble.

Kelly had told Tom that he could return the motor the following morning. And when Tom had then asked if he might use it to go for a spin, take his fiancée out of Dublin that evening, young Edmund Kelly had readily assented.

"But mind you return it without a scratch!" Kelly had said.

As it was, things passed off relatively peacefully in Kilmainham, and, that evening, after supper was over, having surprised Sybil with the unexpected news that he had the loan of a motor car, it was Tom himself who had suggested they take a trip in it out to Howth, a beautiful spot on the coast, a favourite with day trippers, situated about eight miles from the city, on the north side of Dublin Bay.

And now look what had happened.

Indeed, what exactly was it that **had** happened wondered Sybil.

Behind them, alarmed by the sudden noise of the horn, the ear-splitting screech and squeal made by the hurriedly applied brakes, followed by the sound of guttural raised voices, naturally wary of men, the young fox faded furtively back into the surrounding trees. He would, he decided, be wise to find another way to cross the lane and reach the farm's isolated henhouse in search of his evening meal.

"Sweet Jaysus" yelled Tom.

The Morris now leaned at a drunken angle so much so, that Tom thought the impact must have snapped the front axle. How they had avoided being flung out of the motor, or else ending up in the adjacent ditch, he never knew.

"Are you all right love?" he asked, immediately solicitous for Sybil's welfare. Momentarily stunned, Sybil failed to respond.

"Yes, I think so" she said weakly. "Tom, those men ... What on earth do they ..."

"You feckin' idiots!" yelled Tom. "You near bloody killed the both of us! What the bloody hell do you think ..." His words died away as he soon as he saw the pistol trained at his head.

"Shut the feck up! You, put your hands up". The man nodded abruptly at Tom. "Now both of yous ... get out of the motor!" barked another, who from both his tone and his demeanour seemed to be the leader of the group which had just ambushed them.

This can't be thought Sybil. This can't be happening. Not to us. Why, we're getting married in three days' time. This isn't how it is supposed to be, can't be how it's supposed to end, not on a beautiful summer's evening, not here on a quiet country lane, just west of Howth, on the north side of Dublin Bay.

This is a nightmare she reasoned to herself. So, that being the case, if only I can wake myself up, then this will all be over. For both of us.

Wake up!

For God's sake wake up!

But she was already awake.

And the constant, steady pain in her left arm told her that this was no nightmare.

This was reality.

This was for real.

The pressure on her arm told her so in a most uncompromisingly way; the pain increased in intensity, as none too gently the man standing on her side of the motor car suddenly chose to tighten his grip. Sybil looked down at the dirty, bitten nails; the nicotine stained fingers encircling her wrist, and then slowly turned her head, looked blankly, unseeing, at the owner of those self same fingers. The middle aged man grinned lasciviously at her. Sybil winced, cried out.

"You're hurting me" she said evenly between gritted teeth.

"Play your cards right little lady and you and I could have a lot of fun together". The man smirked, nodded his grizzled head in the direction of the neighbouring house, the roof of which could just be glimpsed through the trees on the other side of the lane. The man's gap toothed smile grew broader still; his grip remained as tight as before.

"I shan't be telling yous again. Now get out!" growled the sandy haired young man standing on Tom's side of the motor. Not that there had ever really been any doubt about it; that he meant what he said. As if to emphasise that he was in deadly earnest, he pushed the muzzle of his pistol hard against Tom's right temple, while three of his four compatriots levelled their rifles and took careful aim at both Tom and Sybil; at this range they would not fail to miss.

Perhaps it was shock, but Sybil found herself feeling coolly detached from the reality of their present situation. Who was it said that one's fears are lighter when danger is at hand? No matter. But fear does strange things to people, for curious to relate, at this precise moment, unbidden, there came into Sybil's mind a clear image of Tom ... sitting quietly on the running board of the Renault in the garage back at Downton.

"They've shot the Tsar and all his family" he said.

"How terrible" she heard herself reply. Her mouth felt unaccountably dry.

This then must be how they felt thought Sybil ... those five poor helpless children of the late Tsar. She had read how their brutal executioners crowded into the doorway of that now infamous basement room in Ekaterinburg and. but moments, later opened fire on all of them, at point blank range, before finishing off the whole bloody business, stabbing with bayonets, and clubbing with rifle butts.

Sybil glanced nervously across at Tom still seated in the driver's seat. He was sitting motionless, staring straight ahead of him, as though carved in granite. Then she saw his knuckles whiten as he tensed, hearing her assailant's lewd suggestion, saw Tom tighten his grip on the steering wheel, saw him swallow hard; could see the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, on his upper lip. Instinctively, by way of reassurance, she reached over, squeezed his left thigh tightly with her gloved right hand, at the same time willing him silently to do as he had been told. Don't Tom, please, don't my love, not for my sake, don't do anything foolish.

In no way would Sybil have described herself as a religious person, but now she sent up a heartfelt, unspoken prayer to whatever god or saint just might happen to lending an ear. But no-one seemed to be listening. Images, all of them of Tom, and from what seemed a lifetime ago, came crowding swiftly in upon her mind.

He was standing opposite her in the lamp lit garage at Downton.

"Sometimes a hard sacrifice must be made for a future that's worth having" she heard him say. Was this the sacrifice now demanded of them for Ireland's freedom?

"I'll wait forever" Tom said. Was forever really to be this short?

At the very last, reluctantly, and ever so slowly, Tom finally did as he had been told. Gently, he released his grip on the steering wheel and raised both his hands high in the air. So relieved was she, that Sybil could not prevent herself from exhaling an audible, heartfelt sigh of relief. Whatever happened now, they were both still alive, though for how much longer remained to be seen.

"Now, both of yous, do like I told yous and get out of the motor".

Having opened both the doors, Sybil and Tom, he now with his hands raised high in the air, did as they had been ordered, climbed out of the motor car, and stepped unwillingly down onto the dusty surface of the lane. Mockingly, Sybil's captor offered her his hand.

"Thank you. I can manage" she said disdainfully, with as much hauteur and sang-froid as she could muster; if she had simply been stepping out of the Renault drawn up at the front of Downton Abbey and without a care in the world.

On the other side of the motor car, two of the other men who had stopped them grabbed hold of Tom and roughly frisked him down. Once satisfied that he was carrying nothing of any importance, they let him drop his hands. While three of the men remained with the motor car, the other two ordered Tom and Sybil to walk ahead of them across the narrow lane towards a wooden gate that led through into a cobbled farmyard, the two men following close behind.

"Through there" said one of the men curtly with a wave of his pistol.

In front of them the rickety gate stood wide open; Tom and Sybil had no choice but to do as they were told. With his arm slung comfortingly around Sybil's shoulders, the two of them walked slowly through the gateway and into the farmyard. Save for the constant lowing of cattle coming from one of the adjacent barns, the place seemed utterly deserted, unaccountably bereft of life. Somewhere a dog barked and a door banged to, but no-one came out of the farmhouse to see what was going on.

To their left stood an empty, open, stone built cart shed.

"In there!" ordered the man prodding Tom in the back with his pistol.

"Now stand and face the wall! Both of yous" ordered the other harshly.

Up on the ridge overlooking the farm, the young fox now had his supper. He couldn't quite understand why this time it had all been so easy. After all, there was usually someone about, and several times in the recent past when he had ventured over this way in search of a meal he had come very close to receiving a peppering of buckshot. But this evening, the farm was eerily quiet; seemed to be deserted, although he reasoned that at this hour, this should not be the case; he could hear the cows lowing in the milking shed.

But, whatever the reason for the apparent, seeming lack of humanity, the carrot haired boy who looked after the chickens, and whom the young fox had had the misfortune to encounter on a previous occasion when he had paid a nocturnal visit to the farm, had this evening evidently taken leave of his senses and had forgotten to lock up the henhouse. So, easy pickings, and the fox now had what he had come for.

With the prospect of a satisfying supper ahead of him, the now lifeless body of a succulent, speckled hen clamped firmly between his jaws, nonchalantly, the young fox padded slowly away from the deserted farmhouse and outbuildings. A moment or two later, he stopped dead in his tracks, and sniffed the air about him. Something definitely wasn't right; exactly what eluded him.

However, instinctively, he recognised the scent he smelt now, borne to his keen nostrils on a sudden gust of wind. After all, he knew all about fear; what it meant to be afraid, He had smelt the same scent on his own fur often enough, usually when being chased by the hounds, and he smelt it again now. A moment or two later, as if to confirm the accuracy of his deduction, the young fox was startled beyond measure by a resonance of frightened voices, followed closely by a sudden deafening dissonance of staccato sounds, which drifted up to him on the still evening air from the farmyard below.

"No! God, no!" yelled Tom. "For the love of Christ ... please, if you're going to shoot us, then at least let us ..." Grabbing hold of Sybil, he pulled her close against him, enfolding her in his arms, hugging her to him, holding her tight, in one last, desperate embrace.

"I love you forever my darling!" he sobbed.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sybil saw the two men take aim with their pistols. Horrified, not believing what was happening, she screamed aloud.

"No, don't!" Please! No!"

At the very same moment, she threw her arms tightly around Tom, clasping her hands together around his neck, drawing his well-loved, tear-stained face down to meet her own; his soft lips closing hungrily upon hers in a deep and lingering final kiss.

"Tom, my love ..."

The rest of Sybil's words never came; cut short, lost in a ferocious, murderous hail of bullets.

If only for a few moments, the rapid burst of gunfire continued to echo noisily, then faded, died away, and silence descended once more upon the valley.

It was ended.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Reflections Of An Officer

It was barely nine o'clock on what would otherwise have been a beautiful summer's evening here in County Dublin.

Captain Miles Stathum M.C. late of 1/5th The Suffolk Regiment, and now attached to the 2nd Manchesters stationed in Dublin, sat on the wide running board of the Crossley 20/25 staff car smoking yet another a cigarette. He was beginning to get pins and needles in his feet. Wearily, he uncrossed his long legs, and leaned cautiously back against the bullet scarred bodywork of the motor, dispassionately surveying the scene of carnage before him with, in equal good measure, a mounting sense of annoyance, distaste, impatience, and irritation.

Evidence of this evening's engagement lay all about him. Broken glass and spent bullet casings littered the road, while the smell of cordite and spilled motor oil still hung heavy in the evening air. Up ahead, close to the bullet ridden Morris Oxford, which the Shinners had used to form a makeshift barrier with which to try and block the road, several bodies lay motionless on the now bloodstained surface of the lane. His own men were now moving cautiously from the immediate scene of the fight, spreading out in all directions, down the lane, into the neighbouring fields, the adjacent farmyard, gathering up discarded revolvers, rifles, and clips of ammunition as they went; their former owners now no longer had need of any of them.

Christ, would these bloody bog Irish never learn? Why, only less than a year ago, not long after the fight at Gaza, where in November 1918 he had won his M.C. just before the whole damned show had finally ended, even Johnny Turk had realised when the game was up, and then surrendered.

But as for these ruddy Shinners?

Oh no.

Mind you, at least he himself had always had a sneaking regard for Johnny Turk. After all, when he decided to bestir himself and wasn't spending his time buggering some poor young Arab boy senseless, then Johnny Turk was half way to being a decent fighter. Although, on reflection, thought Stathum ruefully, that … that was probably also in no small measure due to von Falkenhayn, the former German Chief of Staff who, late in the war, had been given the unenviable task of instilling discipline into the Ottoman army, putting some backbone into Johnny Turk, and so leading to a spirited, if ultimately futile, resistance against Allenby's inexorable advance on Jerusalem.

But as for these damned Shinners, Stathum had nothing but the greatest possible contempt. No discipline, no uniforms, mounting ambushes, commando, and guerilla raids, just like the bloody Boers had done nigh on twenty years ago in the late South African War.

S**o**oner or later thought Stathum, it was inevitable that the army would have to assume a greater degree of control over here in Ireland. Martial law must be brought in too; the sooner the better. After all, it was obvious that the Royal Irish Constabulary simply couldn't cope with the increasing levels of both lawlessness and violence. And if he, and others like him, could see it, then so too could the bloody Shinners.

Loathe as Stathum was to admit it, he could see that the enemy was starting to gain the upper hand, striking in their own way, and in their own time, at the railways, at the postal services, burning police barracks, seizing weapons and ammunition, shooting government officials, those they considered to be informers in the pay of the British, then melting away into the bogs and the mists, harassing the patrols sent out to search for them. Not all their operations were by any means as bungled as tonight's little fracas had been; this had been little more than a sideshow of a sideshow. But while the Shinners might never be in a position to drive the British out of Ireland, they might just yet manage to make our position here untenable and our military activities ultimately futile.

God, what a bloody mess! Of course, it didn't help matters that while the British Administration in Dublin Castle controlled the police, the army still came under the War Office back in London. And as for the fifty-one army battalions deployed over here in Ireland, it all sounded terrific on paper.

In practice?

Well, it was a different story altogether. Most of them were not even up to full strength, filled with green recruits, and expected to cover vast areas of the country. Privately, like several others of his rank, Stathum also was beginning to think that the British Administration in Dublin had lost the plot; had heard several not so guarded comments made to that effect in the officers' mess; that if they were not damned careful, the British would lose any advantage they presently possessed.

One simply couldn't afford to be squeamish in dealing with these bastards. Stathum agreed with both the Prime Minister and with Churchill the Colonial Secretary. Send in more troops and sod the consequences. Stamp down hard on the Irish, burn Dublin to the ground, torch the whole damned country from end to end if necessary, and deal with these ruddy bastards once and for all.

It was rumoured that the Colonial Secretary had said he was strongly in favour of using poisoned gas against uncivilised tribes. True, Churchill had been speaking about Mesopotamia or some such other godforsaken place. But, if the use of poison gas could be justified against the ruddy Arabs, then why not use it here in Ireland on the bloody papists? After all, the bog Irish Catholics were no better than the Arabs. So use it here and have done with it. Do anything in fact that would give Ireland peace. After all, did it really matter so very much how many of the Shinners and their sympathisers were executed, how many of their houses were burned? And, if they wanted to go on hunger strike, then let them.

As for Irish independence … God Almighty, Stathum shook his head in disbelief. His parents were landed gentry, who hailed from near Lavenham over in Suffolk, in the east of England. They owned an estate here in Ireland too; had done for over three centuries - Mountgrace House, not far from Limerick. His father was both a retired colonel and a magistrate. When in residence, their family provided local employment up at the big house and throughout the year their tenants continued to farm the surrounding land. Neither he nor his parents were going to give in to intimidation, let their home go up in smoke without so much as a fight. Why the bloody hell should they? After all they had as much right to live here as anybody else. And make no mistake thought Stathum, what we have; we'll keep. No doubt about that. None whatsoever.

As for this evening's stupid, bloody shindy - Stathum would not even deign to dignify it with the term "action" - fought here on a quiet country lane north east of Dublin actually achieved? Precisely nothing. Not a bloody thing.

And all for what?

Another failed, misguided, useless attempt to seize arms from a military convoy; this time on its way up from Howth to Dublin. Clearly the bloody Shinners' intelligence wasn't up to much, otherwise they'd have known about the reinforcements accompanying the two heavily laden motor lorries loaded with munitions.

"Sir?" Statham was jolted out of his reverie by the appearance before him of his corporal. His boots crunching on the gravel of the lane, the young NCO snapped smartly to attention and saluted. Wearily, Statham rose to his feet and returned the salute.

"So, how many have we lost this time, corporal" he asked tersely.

"Three, sir. Sergeant Maxwell killed outright with a bullet through the head, and Privates Cooke and Jones have both sustained flesh wounds. Cooke's lost a lot of blood, sir. the bullet's smashed his arm. As for the Shinners ..."

"Damn the bloody Shinners man!" He saw his corporal visibly blanch under his unexpected outburst; realised immediately that he'd been too harsh. The fast deteriorating situation here in Ireland was getting to them all. He relented and spoke in a more measured tone. "Tell me then. How many of those bastards did we get?"

"Four sir. So far. We're presently searching the farm buildings, conducting a thorough sweep of the immediate area. And …" The corporal paused.

Stathum looked up at him.

"And?" He saw the corporal swallow hard.

"Out with it man!"

"Over in the farmyard sir". The corporal nodded in the general direction of the neighbouring farm buildings. "If you don't mind me saying so, I think you'd better come and see for yourself".


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

The Price Of Innocence

Not that the young fox ever knew it of course, but what happened later in the sunlit farmyard on that same June evening was partly his fault.

The British military convoy had left Howth much earlier than expected and therefore arrived at the farm sooner than anticipated, giving the Volunteers little time to finalise their makeshift preparations, which was why the sudden appearance of the Morris Oxford on the scene was such a God send; here was something they could use to form an improvised barricade, with which they could block the road, behind which they could shelter, and then … open fire.

However, the earlier than expected arrival on the scene of the two lorries and the accompanying staff car meant also that the Volunteers did not have time enough to ensure that **all** members of the Kavanagh family who rented and farmed the land hereabouts were safely assembled in the back kitchen well away from the front of the building and so hopefully out of harm's way.

And it was this simple fact that, ultimately, was to lead to tragedy.

For when the Volunteers had appeared out of nowhere and commandeered the farm in anticipation of their injudiciously planned attack on the army convoy, along with Jiggs, eleven year old Joseph Kavanagh had been in the jacks across the yard down by the milking shed.

Seeing his parents, two younger brothers, and sister being shepherded inside the farmhouse at rifle point, hearing the rumble of the approaching army lorries on the road from Howth, seeing the other Volunteers dispersing themselves into cover as best they could, in and around the entrance to the farm and down along the lane, guessing what was about to happen, telling Jiggs, a two year old Border collie and Joseph's pride and joy to keep quiet, young Joseph decided he was better off staying put where he was.

He had no especial concern for his parents, brothers or sister. He knew they would come to no harm, having recognised two of the Volunteers across the yard, one of them sixteen year old Jimmy Connor, as neighbours of his parents. So, with a boy's unconcern, accompanied by Jiggs, young Joseph sat quietly in the jacks, peering through a crack in the door, and waited to see what happened.

What happened was Jiggs got out.

Of course he wouldn't have done so, had young Joseph not opened the door to the jacks ever so slightly so as to get a better view of the arrival of the two army lorries.

It was then that Jiggs caught sight of the fox up on the ridge above the farm. That was all it took. Jiggs was out of the jacks and across the yard faster than a ferret down a rabbit hole. And, with all thought of the army convoy and the Volunteers now forgotten, young Joseph fairly bolted after him in hot pursuit.

The escape of Jiggs coincided with moments later the forced entry at gunpoint of both Tom and Sybil into the farmyard, at the same time that all hell broke loose in the road outside with the army convoy coming under repeated bursts of small arms fire from the Volunteers sheltering behind the grey Morris and hidden in the dense undergrowth along both sides of the narrow lane, with the British soldiers, present in much greater numbers than had been anticipated, returning withering fusillades of blistering rifle fire from their superior positions aboard the two army lorries now stopped close to the farm entrance.

It was at this same moment, midst the deafening noise of rapid and sustained gunfire, the ricocheting of bullets, the screams of the injured and of the dying, that Sybil caught sight of the young boy running across the sunlit farmyard in pursuit of his dog.

She screamed out loud.

But it was too late.

Disorientated by the noise of gunfire, hearing flying footsteps racing towards them from across the farmyard, fearing a sudden flanking movement from behind the farm buildings by the British, the two Volunteers simply turned and, at point blank range, opened fire.

Amongst others, young Joseph never stood a chance ...


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

Magneto Or Battery?

So, at the final tally, one of his **own** men - a married man with two small children - killed outright, and two others, one of them his own ruddy driver to boot, seriously wounded. Four of the damned "Volunteers" - Christ, the bloody bastards even had the nerve to call themselves the Irish Republican Army - shot dead.

Another was under guard in the back of one of the lorries. Of course, he'd heard the screams, pleading for them to stop; couldn't fail to. Well the little bastard could beg all he liked; it was too damned late for that. Stathum didn't blame his men for what they'd done and wouldn't begrudge them their bit of fun; after all, Maxwell had been a popular sergeant. So if his lads hadn't been exactly gentle when they'd caught the little bastard, it was hardly surprising. No more than sixteen or thereabouts and begging for his mammy, for his bloody beads, or so had said his corporal.

As for those of the bastards who'd got away from the fracas, well they were being sought for by his men; house to house "searches" the army termed them. The Shinners couldn't ... he paused. **Wouldn't** be that far away; must, he reasoned, be local to the neighbourhood. Well, so be it. He'd told his own chaps not to be too squeamish in their pursuit of the bastards! Break a few sticks of furniture; break a few bones if they had to! We shot the ring leaders of their so-called "Rising" back in '16. If I had my way, thought Stathum, I'd do the same with these bastards now. And the sodding rest of them too! Hang the consequences. And the bloody Shinners too! Show everyone over here that we mean business.

Stathum drew heavily on his cigarette, exhaled deeply, and then angrily ground the stub into the dirt with the heel of his boot. Reaching inside his tunic for his monogrammed silver cigarette case, he pulled it out, snapped it open, and extracted another cigarette. Replacing the case, while he fumbled in his pockets for his lighter, he let his thoughts drift back; then wished he hadn't.

The boy.

Stathum had to admit that what he'd seen after following his corporal over to the farm and entering the yard had made him feel physically sick; so it wasn't surprising that he'd seen one of his own men vomit up his own guts over by a hayrick.

The only thing … the only single, sodding thing that had made this evening's whole flaming business slightly more bearable than otherwise it might have been was meeting a kindred spirit; in the unlikeliest of places - here in the middle of nowhere on a quiet country lane six or so miles north east of Dublin...

"So what do you think of her then?" had asked Stathum. Ever since he was a small boy, when his father had bought one of the first motors in Lavenham back in '07, an Austin, a great beast of a thing with a 30hp engine, he'd been mad about motors.

"She weighs in at about 37 cwt. And very reliable too. Unless ..." Stathum paused. The young man eyed him curiously.

"Unless what?"

"Well, unless some bloody, flaming Shinners decide to take pot shots at her! You've seen the state of the bloody radiator? Christ, man! It looks like a flaming sieve!"

The young man nodded his assent.

"That I have" he observed ruefully. "Mind you, the Morris is in a far worse state!"

Stathum nodded glanced over at the other motor, then flicked open his cigarette case again, offered a smoke.

The young man shook his head.

"Thanks, but I don't. As for the radiator, well, I'll tell you now, it'll take more than a couple of bullet holes to do any real damage. And anyway, those can be plugged easily enough; the bodywork made as good as new. Mind you ..." He eyed the shattered glass. "The windshield and one of the headlamps will need replacing".

Stathum nodded.

"My driver can take care of all of that, when he's recovered".

"What kind of ignition?"

"Eh?"

"Ignition. What kind?"

"Magneto".

His compatriot nodded.

"And yours?"

"The same". The young man paused. "Mind you, battery powered ignition is much more reliable. Kettering won a Dewar Trophy for that back in '13. Mark my words, that'll become standard in no time and an end to all of this bloody crank starting".

"Can't come soon enough" observed Stathum.

"What's the compression?"

"Ratio of 4:1 or thereabouts".

"That would make sense. And a stroke of say what? 5 inches?"

"5½ actually. The bore's 4 inches".

"What about the lubrication?"  
"Pressure".

"And you said four speed right hand change gears?"  
Stathum nodded.

"A cone clutch and torque tube drive shaft?" asked the other.

"Yes, with worm and quadrant steering. The suspension is elliptic ".

"And the brakes? What, pedal for the front wheels and lever for the rear?"

"Exactly so".

"She's an impressive motor. A real thoroughbred".

Stathum nodded, unable to conceal how impressed he was by the young man's obvious knowledge of motors.

"You're a bit of a thoroughbred yourself!"

"I rather think some would say I'm more of a mongrel!" The young man smiled; the same endearing lop-sided grin.

"Well, don't let that ever bother you. When it comes to motors, you certainly know your stuff" laughed Stathum.

"What's she like on petrol consumption?"

"About 13-15 miles a gallon". 18 gallon tank. A good turn of speed too. Top's about 55 mph" added Stathum with a grin.

The other man ran his hand almost lovingly over the smooth, metallic surface of the motor.

"**55**mph? I could only ever manage 40 with mine at most. That … that was with my foot hard down on the floor. Not that I really got much chance to do it mind. Short trips you know. Down to the station, into the village, occasionally a bit further afield, over to town. And that apart, the old girl didn't like it!"

"The motor or your passenger?"

"Passenger" said his compatriot with his cheeky, lop-sided grin. "Well one of them. An old lady" he added by way of explanation. He paused, glanced over in the direction of one of the army lorries, then smiled broadly. "But her grand-daughter ... she really likes a good turn of speed!"

Stathum himself grinned. He nodded in the direction of the young dark haired woman helping, he observed, to tend to the injured on both sides of this evening's fracas.

"A nurse I think you said?"

The young man nodded.

"Marvellous girl. Very pretty if you don't mind me saying so".

The young man grinned, flushed red.

"I don't. And yes, she's a nurse".

"Your wife?"

"Well, actually, she's my fiancée. We're getting married on Saturday".

"My very warmest congratulations. I owe her my thanks on behalf of my men. Will you introduce me to her?"

The young man nodded.

"All right" he said shyly.

The two men walked slowly over to the nearest of the two lorries.

"By the way, what did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't, but since you ask, it's Branson. Tom Branson".

The two men had now reached the nearest of the two lorries. On hearing their approach, at the very last moment, the young dark haired woman left off what she was doing, turned, smiled, and stood up.

"And this, this is my fiancée. Darling may I ..."

A pair of dark brown eyes gazed down into blue.

"My God!" exclaimed Stathum "**Sybil**!"


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty Two

Vanished Splendour

A pair of sparkling blue eyes gazed down into dark brown.

Although she had not especially contrived it so, a final tiresome adjustment to her tiara meant that Sybil arrived somewhat later than she had intended for the splendid reception her parents had given to mark both her eighteenth birthday and her entrance into society.

Her cheeks faintly flushed with excitement, with her flawless ivory skin, the long tresses of her dark hair put up for the first time in public, adorned with the smaller of the two Grantham tiaras so graciously leant to her for the occasion by her grandmother the Dowager Countess, her slender figure set off by a stunning sapphire blue gown, Sybil looked a vision of loveliness.

To the dying echo of a waltz that floated faintly up to her ears from the magnificent ballroom below, Sybil stepped out onto the landing above the entrance hall, turned, and came to an abrupt stop at the head of the main staircase of the town house belonging to her aunt, the companionable, fashionable, and gregarious Lady Rosamund Painswick.

From her unrivalled vantage point, Sybil gazed down on the splendid scene in the main hall below. Candlelight and firelight flashed and sparkled reflected in the crystal of the cut glass chandeliers and in the polished facets of the superb jewellery adorning the gowns of many of the women in attendance. As it was, Sybil managed to profit from her late appearance and turned it most adroitly to her advantage, for it meant that those present - her parents, her grandmother, her two sisters, other relatives, and numerous friends - were all there when, quite unobtrusively, and entirely unannounced, she appeared at the head of the grand staircase.

Down below her in the ornate marble entrance hall, Sybil suddenly caught sight of a handsome young officer resplendent in the full dress uniform of a lieutenant in the Suffolk Regiment. From where she was now standing, Sybil could see that he was doing his very utmost to try and engage her sister Mary in polite conversation. A thankless task, thought Sybil, if the petulant expression on her eldest sister's face was anything to go by. It was perfectly obvious to Sybil, if not to the young officer, that for once not being the centre of everyone's attention, Mary was utterly bored by the whole of the evening's proceedings.

Sybil followed Mary's distracted gaze, and seeing where it had come to rest, she smiled broadly.

If, apart from herself, Mary could be said to be remotely interested in anyone present at tonight's gathering then it was in the man who had just arrived; the dark haired Greek naval attaché who had been a recent house guest of their parents at Downton Abbey. It was odd, thought Sybil, but Mary seemed to have a positive penchant for members of foreign legations. Why, only last summer, at the Henley Regatta, Mary had been entranced by the attentions paid her by the Italian military attaché; this autumn it had been the Serbian chargé d'affaires, and now it was the handsome naval attaché from Athens. In her continuing quest for amorous diplomatic conquests, Mary appeared to be moving steadily south eastwards across the continent of Europe.

Recalling what she could of her geography, learned in the school room at Downton under the watchful eye of Mademoiselle Bourges, Sybil idly wondered whether she should contact the Turkish embassy and warn them in advance that her sister Mary's next port of call might well be a diplomat from Constantinople .

Finally, realising he was achieving precisely nothing by his well-mannered overtures to Lady Mary, the young officer politely took his leave of her, nodding curtly to Sybil's elder sister Edith standing close by, and who seemed utterly crestfallen at his sudden departure.

It was as he turned that his arm was accidentally jostled by another male guest. Had this minor contretemps not occurred when it did, the young officer would not then have looked up at the very same moment that the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham, chose to appear at the head of the main staircase. And so it was that out of all of them present there that evening, the one who saw Sybil first was young Miles Stathum.

And a pair of dark brown eyes gazed up into sparkling blue.

Later, of course, the young officer was to attribute his sudden surge of emotion, at least in part, to both the airlessness of the room caused by the press of so many people being present at the same time in the entrance hall, and because he had somewhat over indulged himself by partaking rather too liberally of the excellent champagne then being served.

However, to the impressionable lieutenant but recently returned from the rigours of the South African War, it seemed that the young woman who came seemingly from nowhere to stand at the head of the staircase was a veritable goddess made flesh; Aphrodite, sprung from the summit of Mount Olympus.

The individual reactions of those members of Sybil's immediate family waiting for her at the foot of the main staircase to welcome her downstairs were predictable enough.

For once, indeed perhaps for the very first time in Mary's pampered, privileged life, even she was momentarily lost for words at the sight of her youngest sister now transformed from a girl whom Mary still patronisingly considered to be but a sweet child, if somewhat gauche and something of a tomboy, into a ravishingly beautiful young woman.

Mary's eyes narrowed.

She did not like to be upstaged and would, she reflected, have to keep a watchful eye on Sybil in the future. After all, it would be utterly mortifying to be beaten to the altar by her youngest sister. As for poor, plain Edith, well there was no chance of that. Edith, thought Mary cattily, would be lucky to find anyone interested in her who was both under sixty and yet still possessed of all their faculties.

As for Edith, she registered no emotion whatsoever on her younger sister's appearance and was in fact so tongue-tied and self-effacing as to render herself virtually invisible; while the Dowager Countess of Grantham permitted herself the merest nod of her head and the briefest of smiles to her youngest grand-daughter to indicate her tacit approval.

For her part, Sybil's mother Cora, the present Countess of Grantham, shed a few silent tears of happiness following her youngest daughter's appearance, but then of course, as her mother-in-law the Dowager Countess quietly observed later to a confidante, "Americans are always so self-indulgent"; adding that she was supremely thankful to which ever deity it was which had contrived a trans-Atlantic storm of such apocalyptic proportions that it delayed the sailing of the Cunard liner RMS Mauretania from New York to Liverpool thus making it impossible for Sybil's maternal grandmother the brash, vulgar Martha Levinson to attend the lavish party held in her youngest grand-daughter's honour.

For his part, whatever his innermost feelings, Lord Grantham never permitted himself to display his private emotions in a public arena. He had no intention whatsoever of breaking the cultivated habit of a lifetime and even if he had felt inclined to do so, it would not have been before the sea of spectators now gathered in the marble entrance hall of his sister's town house to witness him escort Sybil downstairs to meet her guests and then to partner her on to the floor of the ballroom. Thus it was that throughout the evening's entire proceedings his face wore its customary mask of aristocratic inscrutability.

Whether a relative or a friend, not of course that the individual designations were mutually exclusive, each and every one of those guests attending Sybil's eighteenth birthday celebrations, naturally extended to her the customary felicitations and good wishes for her future.

However, none of the guests present there that evening were as smitten by Sybil's unheralded appearance at the head of the staircase as was Miles Stathum. It was a memory which he would carry with him and which he cherished for the rest of his life. While military postings overseas to Egypt, then east of Suez to India, and thereafter the outbreak of the Great War, meant that following that single glimpse of Sybil he did not see her again, the young lieutenant was never to forget the beautiful dark haired girl who had so stolen his heart.

What became of her, he was never to know until chance, or was it fate, brought them both together again, and in the unlikeliest of circumstances, on a quiet country lane northeast of Dublin, on a June evening in the summer of 1919.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three

The Watcher On The Shore

Incidents, such as the violent, and in the end singularly futile attack on the two British army lorries by the Volunteers on the road from Howth, leading to the needless loss of life on both sides, to which Tom and Sybil had just become unwilling spectators, were beginning to become all too commonplace.

Sadly the bloody outcome of the ambush was symptomatic of the vicious brutality and utter madness into which much of Ireland was now descending, as demands for Irish independence became ever more noisome, ever more strident; when certain individuals were prepared now to go to any lengths to achieve their aims, be it to maintain and preserve the union with Great Britain, or else to tear it asunder and create a new and wholly independent Ireland.

Of course from the stark experiences she had gained as a nurse during the war, initially while in training at the Ripon Camp Military Hospital and thereafter at the convalescent home established at Downton Abbey, Sybil was only too well aware of the appalling injuries bullets, let alone explosives, could wreak on the human body. She had seen the horrific consequences of both many times over. But the incident at the farm was the first time she had experienced for herself, and at close quarters, the kind of violence which caused such injuries.

However, while she was understandably severely shaken by what had occurred, especially given what both of them had been forced to witness in the farmyard with the accidental shooting dead of eleven year old Joseph Kavanagh, Tom was beginning to encounter such incidents on an almost daily basis in the course of his reporting for the Independent.

From the very outset of their engagement, both he and Sybil agreed never to have secrets from one another. However, there were times recently when Tom, whilst not resorting to lies - that would never do - had chosen to be economical with the truth, had resorted to half-truths regarding what it was he chose to tell Sybil as to where he had been and what he had seen in the course of his work as a journalist. By way of justification, he told himself that he would go to any lengths, do anything to spare her needless distress, and so smooth Sybil's path as she embarked on the new life they were both now making for themselves here in Ireland. And if that meant being diplomatic in what he chose to tell her about certain matters, then so be it.

And yet, even so, both of them knew only too well that beyond the intimate, private idyll they were intent on creating for themselves, outside the four snug walls of Ma's house in Clontarf, there existed a very real world; one which was becoming increasingly brutal and violent.

But a few days prior to the bloody incident out at the farm on the road between Howth and Clontarf, both Tom and Sybil had received a very direct and especially unpleasant foretaste of what was beginning to happen in both Dublin, let alone elsewhere in the country and which occurred on the very morning after they had made love for the first time; an extremely unpleasant reminder of the darkness into which Ireland was now slowly descending.

After the untrammelled joy and physical pleasure that Tom and Sybil had experienced in Tom's bed the previous night, in their intense physical need of each other the previous night, neither of them had given the slightest thought to closing the curtains, so they had been awoken by birdsong and the sunlight of the late June morning streaming in through the open window of Tom's bedroom.

Of course, both would much far rather have stayed where they were, snuggled closely together in warmth of the Tom's bed, wrapped tightly in each other's arms, Tom lying on his back, Sybil sprawled contentedly across him, her head resting comfortably on his bare chest.

However, reality abruptly intruded, with the coming of the dawn and the sobering realisation that both of them had jobs to go to. So, after several lengthy, lingering kisses, which had they both not restrained themselves, would have led them anew into exploring the delightful pleasure of each other's bodies, with great difficulty, exercising a considerable degree of physical control, very regretfully both of them decided it was now time to get up.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, neither of them felt at all uncomfortable being naked in front of the other. But, being unsure as to when Ma would be returning - if she was not already on her way back from the farm, while Sybil struggled back into her nightgown and put on her dressing gown, barefoot and wearing nothing except his pyjama trousers, whistling happily, feeling like he was walking on air, Tom fairly danced down the stairs, to make tea for them both and to fetch hot water from the range for them to wash with and bring it upstairs to the bathroom.

It was as he reached the foot of the stairs that he saw it; a single folded sheet of paper, lying by the front door on the tiled floor of the hall and which Tom knew had not been there the previous night when he had locked up. Bending down, Tom picked it up and walked into the kitchen, unfolding the paper, reading as he went.

Scrawled across the middle of the coarse paper was a single sentence, brief and to the point:

**If you value your life leave Ireland and take your English whore with you**

Feeling like he had been punched hard in the stomach, Tom sank down on a chair at the kitchen table, resting his elbows on the ribbed wooden surface, and covered his face in his hands. Despite the heat from the range, he felt himself go very cold, shook first with anger and then with real fear for Sybil's safety. If anything should happen to her … At that he began to sob, which was how Sybil found him but a short while later, when, mystified by his non appearance back upstairs, she came down to find out what had become of him.

Picking up the note from off the top of the kitchen table, Tom heard her whistle, her sharp intake of breath, and then but a moment later felt her warm arm slip comfortingly around his bare shoulders.

"Tom, my love, take no notice of this".

"But if they … what it says about you …" Tom turned and buried his tear stained face in the folds of Sybil's nightgown. Ignoring the penetrating chill of the quarries Sybil knelt down on the cold tile floor and cupped his face in her hands.

"But nothing, my love" she said, slipping both her arms tightly about him, covering his face with kisses. "Tom", and when he failed to respond, "Tom Branson, will you look at me!"

Slowly Tom turned his tear-stained face to look at her.

"Tom, you and I both knew that when we made the decision to come over here to Ireland, especially now, given all of what is happening, that there would be risks. That we would face hostility and unpleasantness is, I suppose, after all, only to be expected. But for the most part, well, so far my love, we've been incredibly lucky".

"I know that. But … if anything were to happen … to you because of your association … with me, I know I couldn't go on … Wouldn't it be better …" sobbed Tom.

Sybil silenced him with a lingering kiss.

"Hush now. And no, Tom, it wouldn't. And neither could I, my love - if anything happened to you" said Sybil softly. "We're like two sides of the same coin. And as for this, my love …" She reached across and grabbed the piece of paper from off the table. "Words, hurtful words to be sure, but no more than a line written on a scrap of paper" she said contemptuously. "And, my darling … like everything else we've been through so far, we'll face this together". Sybil cupped his face tightly in her hands. "I told you once before, **we** are the future my love. Don't ever lose sight of that fact. Rest assured, no-one will ever take that from us. You won't let that happen, and neither will I". Tom shifted round on his chair, to look adoringly at Sybil, and did exactly the same. Cupping her face with his hands, he kissed her passionately.

"Yes", Tom said wiping his tears away with the back of his hand, as reluctantly, they broke apart. "Yes, compared to many others, I suppose we have been incredibly lucky". Tom smiled at her. "And, as ever, my darling, you're right".

"Of course I am" said Sybil brightly. "I'm a woman". She paused; then grinned at him. "You know Tom, I don't mind being your whore. In fact, I quite like the idea! But I'd much rather be your wife. And, in case you've forgotten, that's exactly what I will become, in but five days from now!"

Screwing up the piece of paper, Sybil crossed purposefully to the range, pulled open the door, shoved the note into the heart of the brightly burning fire, and watched as the paper caught light almost immediately, flared into flame, then crumbled into ash.

"Now, my love, what about that tea you were supposed to be making for us?"

Later that same day, with supper over, and with all thought of the morning's unpleasantness forgotten, as the sun sank slowly in the west and the shadows lengthened, arm in arm, Tom and Sybil strolled slowly along the sea shore, as they did most evenings.

The third and final reading of the banns announcing their forthcoming marriage had taken place the previous Sunday in the grey stone spired church of St. John the Baptist on Seafield Road in Clontarf. They could scarcely believe it; only five more days. After all the years of waiting, of self denial, they were to be married on Saturday. And, this evening, after supper, they had been to see the Reverend John Connell, rector of the parish, to finalise some minor details of the simple ceremony which would see Tom and Sybil joined together as man and wife. Happy ever after; for once it would be true - of that they were both entirely certain.

Apart from Mary and Edith, the only others who would be attending the wedding would be Ma, Ciaran, Donal, and Emer along with their respective spouses and children. After the ceremony in the parish hall adjoining the church, there was to be a simple wedding tea, the planning of which Ma, Emer, Aislin and Niamh had insisted should be left to them to organise.

Having written home to Downton in very good time with the details of their wedding, Sybil had blithely assumed that, after having given her and Tom his blessing, her father, in fact both her parents now that she knew her mother had recovered from her bout of Spanish 'flu, and her two sisters would be coming over. Of course, she knew, given her age and increasing infirmity, it would be impossible for her grandmother to make the journey to Ireland for the ceremony.

So, Sybil had been absolutely distraught to learn from Edith's most recent letter, that neither her mother, nor her father, would be coming over to Dublin for the wedding. It transpired that Papa was very much taken up with estate business, and Mama despite all appearances to the contrary had, apparently, still not fully regained her health; or so said Edith. In addition, again according to Edith, Papa also cited the escalating violence and the ongoing disturbances, both in and around Dublin, as a sufficient pretext to satisfactorily explain away their absence. There was a token expression of good wishes from her parents, but nothing more than that and not a single mention of Tom himself.

On a happier note, a letter arrived from Mary breezily informing Sybil as to when both she and Edith would be arriving and where they would be staying, but also tactlessly mentioned the fact that despite their father's apparent pressing commitments and their mother's continuing poor health, both Papa and Mama had been among the guests attending the wedding of the Honourable James Maxstoke whose parents, Lord and Lady Ashcombe owned the Ferndale estate and which adjoined that of Downton to the south west.

"… and after Papa gave us his blessing too" said Sybil bitterly, raising her tear stained face to Tom in Ma's kitchen. "He didn't mean it. Any of it!" she stormed angrily, covering her face with her hands and sobbing convulsively. Sitting next to her, Tom gently placed his arms around her, pulled her close.

"You said they'd come round, but they haven't, Tom. Why won't they accept **you****? ****Us**?"

"Give them time, Sybil. I'm sure they will" said Tom, but he now spoke with less conviction than he had before. Even he was beginning to wonder if Sybil's family would ever see their forthcoming marriage as anything other than a monumental disappointment, an embarrassment, a disgraceful mésalliance; the very fact of which was to be kept hidden from Sybil's family, her relations, and friends, and seemingly for all time.

Following their visit to the rector, Sybil and Tom started their evening walk along the strand somewhat later than usual. Owing to the comparative lateness of the hour, and also because the weather was beginning to close in, with every prospect of yet more heavy rain before nightfall, unexpectedly, they found they had the beach to themselves.

"… and they have to stay somewhere, Tom. After all, with no disrespect to Ma, can you really see either Mary or Edith lodging here with us in Clontarf?"

"You mean can I see Mary sleeping across the landing from me - God help me if I mistook her room for yours my darling - having breakfast with us in the kitchen, trudging out across the yard to the jacks" laughed Tom. A mischievous grin momentarily lit up his features.

"Yes" said Sybil, grinning, "That's precisely what I meant!"

"Well no, of course not. But why on earth the Shelbourne? I'm told it's very fine inside. But, then so it should be - after all, it's only the most expensive hotel in Dublin. I told you where it is - on the north side of St. Stephen's Green, overlooking the lake. Of course, given the damage the Gresham sustained in the Rising, they couldn't stayed there, but they could've just as well have taken a suite at Wynn's".  
"I'm sure they could" said Sybil. "But you know Mary ... only the finest Papa's money can buy".  
"Don't I just" said Tom. "Mind you, I know the outside of the hotel well enough. When I worked for the Lord Lieutenant, I was often sent to collect those of his guests who were staying at the Shelbourne from the front portico of the hotel and returned them there from the Viceroy's Lodge afterwards. But, in all that time, seeing how I was but a poor lowly chauffeur, so I never actually got to set foot inside the place".

Tom managed to contrive to assume a most miserable impression, even managing to make his bottom lip tremble.

"All those society ladies dressed in the height of fashion. And not one of them, ever once gave me so much as a second glance" Can you imagine how that felt?" Tom sounded utterly crestfallen.

"Well" said Sybil, for once assuming a serious tone, "I'm very glad they didn't, because if they had, then I, for one, would have been incredibly jealous. And we, my love, might not be getting married on Saturday! But as for never setting foot inside, well, now that you're a rising journalist, that's all about to change. Mary and Edith have asked us to meet them there for afternoon tea".

"What you mean is they've asked **you** to join them" said Tom affably. "I know, I know. You've told me that Edith's slowly warming to the idea of having me for a brother-in-law. But, as for Mary, well, I rather suspect the only slow warming she has in mind for me is to see me turning on a roasting spit - assuming of course that there are a couple of servants on hand to do the turning".

"Oh, I don't know" said Sybil archly. "Knowing Mary she'd probably take great pleasure in helping out with … what was that word Ma explained to me a couple of days ago in the kitchen? Ah yes, the basting!" said Sybil and laughed out loud.

"Don't even joke about it" said Tom and chuckled. "Why, I can feel myself approaching the well done stage. Mind you, I expect she'll find something to complain about ... the standard of the accommodation, the staff, the cuisine …"

"Knowing Mary, I rather imagine it will be all of those things" laughed Sybil. "You will come, darling, won't you?" she asked.  
"Of course" said Tom and laughed. "Afternoon tea with Lady Mary Crawley! Why, I wouldn't miss it for the world. That's just as soon as I can get away from the office. There's a rumour of something being planned down on the quays - a demonstration of some kind - against the unloading of munitions for the British army. Someone from the paper will have to be on hand to cover it. But I'll join you just as soon as I can. I promise".

By now, they had now reached the furthest point they ever came to in their evening strolls along the strand before, reluctantly, they turned and began to retrace their steps. Tonight as they did so, the first drops of rain began to fall. Feeling them spatter on his collar, Tom glanced up at the threatening sky, and then tightened his protecting arm around Sybil.

"There's a storm coming, love; I think we should be heading back".

"Time for a kiss surely" asked Sybil.

Tom chuckled, drew her close to him, and gazed down into her bright eyes.

"Why, that there is and to be sure" he said. "I love you Sybil Crawley. Have I ever told you that?"  
"Not in the last five minutes, no" said Sybil and giggled.

"Oh Tom!" Her arms went up around his neck and drew him down into a long lingering kiss.

And, as they embraced tightly, neither of them had a single thought for the rain which had now begun to fall heavily, not for the gathering political storm threatening to engulf Ireland in civil war, and certainly not for the disapproval of Sybil's aristocratic family of their relationship; indeed not for anything else, for no-one, except each other.

Seizing the opportunity thus presented to him to slip away unobserved and get out of the worsening weather, the man who had been watching Tom and Sybil for the last hour or so, moved swiftly and silently from his hiding place behind an outcrop of rock. Making his way quickly round the low headland, he ran over towards where a motor, its engine already running, awaited him at the end of the rough track which led down to the shore. Clambering in, the man pulled the door shut, then turned to his waiting companion, and said in a low voice:

"Shelbourne Hotel. Tell Quinlan and the others".

The driver nodded, put the motor into gear, and the vehicle moved off into the gathering storm.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty Four

A Shockingly Bad Correspondent

Smoking yet another cigarette, Captain Miles Stathum sat alone in the rear seat of the bullet scarred Crossley staff car watching disinterestedly, as in a cloud of choking fumes, the two lumbering army lorries finally turned into the entrance gate leading to the Richmond Barracks. It was here where the interrogation of the four prisoners from this evening's little ruckus would begin later tonight. Then, assuming of course they survived that particular experience, thereafter they would all be moved to Kilmainham Gaol to await trial.

As the second of the two heavily laden military lorries trundled noisily over the granite setts and disappeared through the imposing stone archway leading into the barracks, Miles tapped his driver smartly on the shoulder, indicating that he was now ready to be under way, telling the private to make the best possible speed he could, as Miles was impatient to be back at the castle soon as possible. That, thought Miles, should present no problem, as at this late hour, the streets were likely to be all but deserted. The private nodded his assent, got out of the car, and began furiously to crank the engine.

With Cooke now in the tender care of the Royal Army Medical Corps, his place as Miles's'driver had been taken by a private from one of the three platoons who had been in the lorries when they had been ambushed earlier that evening. As a driver he was competent enough, but still not a patch on Cooke. But no matter, as long as the lad drove safely and got them both back to the castle in one piece. As if to confirm Miles's blunt assessment of Cooke's temporary replacement, with the engine now turning over nicely, and the private back in the driver's seat, Miles heard the gears of the Crossley crunch sickeningly. He winced inwardly; Mr. Branson would not be pleased.

Moments later, and the heavy motor gathered speed, heading back through the lamp-lit streets of the now slumbering city, passing Kingsbridge station, thence along the quays lining the south bank of the Liffey river, and so on to Dublin Castle, centre of the British administration here in Ireland.

Apart from drafting out, correcting, and then finally submitting his report on the failed ambush out at Howth, all of which could wait until later tomorrow; Miles now had a private letter to write; one that had at all costs to be ready so as to catch the first mail boat leaving Kingstown Harbour the following morning.

As the Crossley purred through the silent streets, Miles continued to reflect on all that happened that evening. The attack on the army convoy had been foolish, had led to needless casualties - on both sides, as had been pointed out to him somewhat forcefully by none other than Lady Sybil Crawley herself.

It was odd. Damned odd. Indeed, singularly so.

There really was no other way of describing it.

His encounter with Lady Sybil Crawley ...

The young boy.

Yes, it had been an awful business. Damned ... He apologized for his use of language, saw her smile. Don't apologise she had said. Not on her account. He'd laughed. Then he had become serious again. The young boy … she shouldn't have to have seen that. No, quite right. No-one should. Was she recovered? Glad to hear it. The Volunteers … Fighting for **their** country she had said. But surely she didn't **sympathise with them**? After all, what had happened here tonight, it had all been their fault. But they had sustained casualties too she had said. Did they not have a right to medical attention? Not if his men had anything to do with it thought Miles. But he then had merely nodded his head, said that of course they did. He would ensure that they were properly attended to in that regard before they were questioned. He thanked her profusely for what she had done for the wounded … of both sides. He saw her glance over to the farmyard where the boy's parents were kneeling by their young son's body, wracked with grief, a black clad priest kneeling beside them in the dirt and the dung on the straw strewn farmyard.

Yes, Lady Sybil recognised him. Of course she did. Remembered too, that when he'd had the great privilege of meeting her for the first time, it had been at the London home of her aunt, Lady Painswick. How was she by the way? Fine. Glad to hear that. Yes! That was right. Miles laughed. He had indeed been making … or rather attempting to make … conversation with her eldest sister and … getting precisely nowhere!

He'd then proceeded to ask all the appropriate, quite proper, questions, that good manners dictated. How were her two sisters, Lady Mary? Lady Mary was engaged to be married? Really? Sir Richard Carlisle. In newspapers? How interesting. Not that Miles himself had much time for the press. Just look at how certain newspapers over here - the Independent for one - reported some of what was going on in Ireland. Didn't Mr. Branson agree? Mr. Branson demurred, said that the truth was rather like God, not always on the side of the British. Even he'd had to smile at that. Well, even if Miles disagreed most vehemently with what the young Irishman had just said, he was too well mannered to say so. He did not want to spoil this most delightful and most unexpected of reunions.

Then Miles found himself having to apologise profusely ... for not being able to remember the Christian name of Lady Sybil's other sister. In fact, if the truth were told, Miles couldn't even remember what she looked like. Definitely not as imperious as Lady Mary; certainly not as beautiful as Lady Sybil. Mousy little creature, somewhat insipid - not that Miles said so. **Edith**. Ah, yes, of course. Lady Edith. How was Lady Edith? He remembered her name now, but only after Lady Sybil had reminded him of it; not that he still had the foggiest as to what she looked like. Unmarried. No-one special then? Hardly surprising that - although of course Miles didn't say so.

Her parents? Lord Grantham? Very pleased to hear that her father was so well, but awfully sad to learn that her mother had been dangerously ill. Tragic that … about Captain Crawley's fiancée. One of his own cousins, he'd been no more than twenty as well, had also died of the 'flu.

Very pleased to hear that Lady Grantham was now well recovered. **Recovering **then, Miles hastily corrected himself - when Lady Sybil herself had explained that her mother was still **recovering**, was therefore unable to travel; would not be able to attend her forthcoming wedding here in Dublin. But her father … **He** wouldn't be attending **either**? Miles hoped he hadn't sounded too surprised by that particular revelation. Estate business. Oh, really.

But, even so, that **was **singularly odd. Not that Miles said so of course. But, the youngest daughter of a prominent peer of the realm marrying, and her own father **not** attending the wedding. Perhaps he didn't approve of …. Mind you, the young Irishman seemed personable enough. It was odd, but now he came to think of it, Mr. Branson looked familiar. But if they had met before, Miles couldn't for the life of him presently recall where it had been, or under what particular circumstances. And yet …

Lady Sybil's grandmother, the Dowager Countess, was well enough too, thank you, although beginning to feel her age. A particular friend of Miles's great aunt - Lady Maud Ferrers. Oh, Lady Sybil had not known of that. She sounded somewhat put out by the seemingly small disclosure. Not that Miles could see why. As far as he was aware, the two old ladies didn't correspond that often. Although, come to think of it he himself really ought to write to his great aunt. He was such a shockingly bad correspondent.

So, where was it that Lady Sybil and her fiancé had met? Miles naturally assumed it was over here in Ireland. But no, not in Ireland. In England then. Oh, in Yorkshire. Really? Well, well, well. And at the end of the war? No, before that. But was that where Mr. Branson had seen service then, in Yorkshire? The Irishman had smiled at that; merely nodded his assent.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. In Yorkshire". He'd smiled again - the same lop-sided grin as before, but thereafter had volunteered no further information about his war record.

Well, Miles knew perfectly well that some of the men, both those already serving and those who'd joined up, only then to find themselves seeing out the war serving in England, guarding the home front, when so many others had been posted overseas, to France, to the Middle East, to elsewhere in the Empire, even over here to Ireland, considered that they'd missed out on the real show; felt that they hadn't quite done their bit. Perhaps the Irishman was one. Well, never mind. Miles didn't see it that way. Not at all. He didn't mind himself. Just so long as they had served. Not a shirker or worse still a conscientious objector. No better than a coward. Done their bit for King and Country don't you know. Of course, good manners prevented Miles from asking exactly in which regiment it was that the young Irishman had served. He could always find that out if he was minded to do so. What made him think of that, at that precise moment he never quite knew, but think of it, he most certainly did.

So, they were living over here in Dublin then? And with Mr. Branson's family? Really. Miles had been somewhat surprised to learn that. Again he hoped that his surprise at the news hadn't been too obvious. But then what with the war, things had changed so much, were still doing so; were not what they once had been. And they intended to settle here too? Really? Despite all of the present troubles? But of course, Mr. Branson was Irish. How silly of him. Stupid question that. Miles apologized profusely for his blunder.

Branson … now he was sure he'd come across a family of that name, down in the south, near Cork. Was he related to them by any chance? There was a slight pause, but a pause nonetheless, and then Mr. Branson had shaken his head. Lady Sybil had said he was a writer? Yes, of sorts. The Irishman had been as laconic about that as he had been about his war record. It was quite remarkable, given how loquacious Mr. Branson had been about matters to do with the motor, that he was now so seemingly reticent both about his war record and his profession.

And Lady Sybil had trained as a nurse during the war. Good Lord! Well, very well done indeed. A convalescent home had been established at Downton Abbey? Really, well good for her parents. Several of his own parents' friends had offered their homes for use as such. Damned glad to get them back at the end when it was all over though.

The Morris was not in a remotely driveable condition, so once Miles had had some of his men push it off the road and into the empty cart shed at the farm to await collection as and when arrangements could be made to get it back to Dublin, he had done the only thing he could and offered them both a lift in the staff car into the city. And yet they'd both seemed remarkably reluctant to take up his offer. They did so in the end. After all, they had no real option - it was a long walk back to …

The Crossley purred into life and with the two lorries following close behind the short convoy set off back to Dublin. By now a slight breeze had arisen and borne on it, as they passed on down the lane, in a sudden lull in the wind, all three of them in the open motor heard distinctly a thin keening wail which as they listened dwindled, faded, and was gone.

Later …

Just exactly was it where they were living, they hadn't said? Miles noticed that Lady Sybil didn't reply directly to his question. Instead, she'd asked that they be dropped on Sackville Street, by Nelson's Pillar. They could then get the tram from there. The **tram**? The earl of Grantham's youngest daughter riding on a **tram**? God Almighty, Miles wouldn't be seen dead riding on one of those things. Mind you if he got on one now in the uniform of a British officer he probably would end up dead and his body dumped in some remote spot well outside the city.

Then, on the journey back into Dublin, neither of them had said more than a handful of words between them. Miles had put it down to delayed shock - given what they had both witnessed. But afterwards he was not so sure. And when his driver had stopped the motor on Sackville Street as requested, their thanks to him had been perfunctory at most.

He'd turned in his seat, watched them slowly cross the street in the gathering dusk, heading for the Pillar, saw how solicitous **he** was of her, saw **her** turn and look at **him**. And, oh that look. Why, if Lady Sybil Crawley were ever to look at him like that, Miles had no doubt that he'd have melted into his very boots!

Much later, long after most people in Dublin were in their beds, back in his room at the castle, Miles sat himself down at his desk, turned up the lamp, then reached for pen and paper …

"Dearest (that would sweeten the old girl he thought) Aunt Maud,

You will I am sure be somewhat surprised, if indeed not amazed, to hear from me after such a long time, but I am, I confess, urgently in need of your advice. You remember the earl and countess of Grantham? Well, of course you do. I believe you know the present earl's mother? Well, that being so, today I had the most curious encounter on the outskirts of Dublin …


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty Five

The Past Is Myself

It happened just after the Number 31 tram had come to a sudden and an unexpected stop on North Strand Road, just beyond where the Newcomen Bridge spanned the Royal Canal. Apparently there was some problem with the electrical supply, but given the lateness of the hour, there were few passengers on board and all seemed to take the news with equanimity, given the fact that such occurrences were happening all the time these days.

They had been sitting chatting about which was worse, Tom having to tell Edmund Kelly what had happened to his much prized motor, or the prospect of afternoon tea at the Shelbourne Hotel and sitting and making polite conversation with both Edith and Mary.

"... and faced with the prospect of afternoon tea with Lady Mary Crawley, or being sent up the line to the most exposed salient on the Western Front, I expect most men would prefer to go over the top!" laughed Tom rolling his eyes in mock horror. The words died away on his lips and all of a sudden he fell strangely silent.

Bemused, Sybil glanced across at him. Tom was sitting bolt upright, staring across the gangway. He appeared to be looking at the row of colourful signs opposite him and which lined the space just above the windows on both sides of the tram, advertising a wide variety of household products, as well as cigarettes, and tobacco. Only Sybil knew Tom was seeing something else, far beyond the confines of the interior of the tram. After all, she recognised that look on his face; had seen it before, several times now, but on this particular occasion she thought that she knew the cause. She squeezed his hand tightly.

"Tom, what is it, love? What do you see? Tell me".

"Oh, it's nothing, really".

"Really? I know you, remember?" She smiled softly.

"Well, I ... I was just thinking ..."

"Yes, love, I know". She slid her arm around his hunched shoulders. "I know what you're thinking about".

"**You do**?" He looked ashen, searched her face; looked questioningly at her.

She nodded.

"Yes of course, I do, Tom. That young boy. What else could it be? It was a terrible thing to see happen, but it doesn't do for you, or me, or anyone else, to dwell on that kind of thing".

Yes, he thought. The young boy...

Tom was surprised at Sybil's matter-of-fact response. Was it, he wondered, an example of the British aristocracy's famous sang-froid? Tom thought it unlikely. For although, when the mood took her, or she felt the occasion so demanded, Sybil could turn on aristocratic haughtiness as quickly as other women turned on a tap, he knew equally well that in no way could Sybil be called cold hearted; indeed that she was quite the opposite; both tender and deeply loving. His surprise must have registered on his face, because evidently realising that her words must have sounded rather harsh, even brutal, she relented somewhat.

"The death of young ones is always to be pitied" Sybil said staring into space, and obviously quoting from memory.

"Yes, but I ..."

She silenced him by placing a forefinger gently across his lips.

"But nothing, Tom. I never told you, you never asked me, but when I was training at Ripon, I saw many awful sights. I saw things you can only thankfully guess at. I saw bodies so badly mutilated they were scarcely even human anymore. I saw men die horribly on the operating table. Which is why my love, your jibe about bringing hot drinks to randy officers stung so much. But I learned, very early on in my nursing, that I had to stay detached, to distance myself from becoming too involved, from dwelling on such things... in order to keep my sanity. Call it callous if you will, but I would say it was more a case of self-preservation. That doesn't mean I don't care, I do. And, most especially I care very deeply ... about **you** my love". So saying, Sybil reached up and gently caressed his cheek with her gloved hand, and with her touch, Tom found himself remembering back to when she had done just the same, in the garage at Downton, on a long gone evening.

And, once again Tom also found himself marvelling anew at the young woman sitting next to him on the slatted wooden seat of the tramcar. Of course, Stathum had meant it kindly enough, when he had called Sybil a marvellous girl and Tom had taken Stathum's remark in good part, even if he thought the British officer to be an arrogant, patronising sod. After all, Sybil was so much more than just a marvellous girl; he could attest to that. Tom grinned broadly, but his reverie was particularly short lived for it was just then that the aberrant thought struck him: Stathum ... Now why the devil did that name sound so familiar? Or did it? He shook his head and once more Tom's thoughts, predictably enough, returned to Sybil.

It was only natural for her to have assumed that he had been thinking about that awful business of the young boy out at the farm on the Howth road. Only of course he hadn't; hadn't been doing that at all...

His eyes were wide open, but unseeing - at least in the conventional sense of the word. For, as if it was just yesterday, instead of a lifetime ago, and here in the most unlikeliest of settings, with Sybil sitting close beside him, in a brightly lit tramcar, on a street in the very heart of Dublin, in the gathering dusk of a summer's evening, Tom had found himself suddenly assailed by the unmistakeable smell of freshly tanned leather, mixed with the pungent aroma of horse sweat, of straw, and manure. But this time, there was to be no blissful gap in memory.

He was no more than twelve years old...

Tom was hiding up in the hayloft above the stables at Skerries, lying full length on his stomach, peering through a crack in the floor. Below him, he could see his two cousins searching the empty stalls one by one.

"Where's the little bastard got to this time?" asked William.

Tom saw that he had picked up a pitchfork, was now jabbing viciously into the piles of straw in each of the stalls.

"God knows, but he can't have gone that far" said Christopher.

Tom could hear his heart pounding in his chest and every now and then it seemed to skip a beat. That apart, he was beginning to experience severe cramp in his left leg from lying still for so long. If only he could...

The boy came back into the stables from the yard outside.

"There's no sign of him out there ..."

A cloud of hazy dust motes, followed in their wake by a single wisp of straw, spiralled slowly and softly downwards to the stable floor.

The boy glanced upwards at the ceiling and grinned.

"Got you, you little sod" yelled William triumphantly, as he turned and ran towards the ladder leading to the hayloft.

Somewhere a bell clanged, and instantly the image dissolved into nothing. There was then a sudden jolt, and the tramcar slowly resumed its interrupted journey out to Clontarf.

The letter, when at last it came, was postmarked"Salt Marsh"; the writing, on both the envelope and within elegant, yet at the same time thin and spidery. So the old girl ... Miles corrected himself ... dear Aunt Maud ... has actually deigned to honour me with a reply. Back in the privacy of his quarters, Miles tore open the envelope with almost feverish haste, and pulled out the several sheets of paper which it enclosed.

"The Old Hall, Watersreach, Salt Marsh, Crowland, Lincolnshire ..."

Yes, of course, he had forgotten. But, come to think of it, just like the haughty Lady Dedlock in "Bleak House", Aunt Maud did dwell in some damp, godforsaken, marsh ridden part of the country. Slowly, and with increasing impatience, Miles began to leaf through the letter in its whole interminable entirety. With scant interest, he passed over Aunt Maud's good wishes, her lengthy and tedious news about distant and immediate members of the family, of friends both at home and abroad, condolences over the death of his godfather here in Ireland, until at last he finally came upon what it was he was looking for .

"Now, my dear boy, as to Lady Sybil Crawley. Surely you must have heard ..." I haven't you old bat, thought Miles, otherwise I wouldn't have written to you in the first place. He read further. "And, since I suspected her grandmother's version of events was not quite the whole story, I made some discrete enquiries. The fact is ..." It was then that Miles's jaw dropped several inches.

Well, that explained everything. No wonder the earl and countess of Grantham would not be coming over to Ireland for their youngest daughter's wedding. And, nor did Miles blame them, given what Aunt Maud had written and told him. How on earth could Lady Sybil have done such a thing? Become engaged to ... As for that chap, **Mr.** Branson. Miles shook his head in utter disbelief. No wonder he had been so guarded about his military service. **In service** more like. God Almighty! And no wonder he knew so much about motors. Of course he would ... the bloody little chauffeur!


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six

All Things Now Considered

Since 1820 the records of all domestic and estate staff in service at Downton Abbey had resided in a series of leather bound ledgers which reposed on the top shelf behind Mr. Carson's desk in the butler's pantry. If Mr. Carson ever had the inclination, or indeed the time, to take down from off that shelf the ledger for the year 1878, kept and written in beautiful copperplate script by Mr. William Edley his predecessor as butler, Mr. Carson would undoubtedly have been astonished to find that young Tom Branson former chauffeur to the Crawleys, now the rising star of the Irish Independent, and shortly to be His Lordship's son-in-law, was not the first Irishman to be in service with the earls of Grantham.

That honour, if indeed it could be so described, fell to a certain Gerald Donnelly from County Limerick, to be more precise from near Castleconnell, whose own father Tadgh had been a tenant farmer of the Stathums of Mountgrace House. In the autumn of 1878, on the death of his father, surrendering his position as under keeper on the Downton Abbey estate, shaking the dust of England firmly from off his boots, Gerald Donnelly returned home to Ireland to wed his childhood sweetheart Maria McNamara, and, taking on the farming tenancy previously held by his late father, settled on the Mountgrace Estate. Thereafter, and for the rest of his life, Gerald devoted himself in equal good measure to Maria, to the land, and to the bottle. The result of his devotion to the land was somewhat mixed owing to his devotion to the bottle, but the earnest devotions he paid to Maria in due course presented them both with a large family of some eight children, the youngest of whom was Jeremiah, known to the family as Jerry.

Born in 1895, in search of employment, in 1911, then aged 16, young Jerry made his way to Dublin, and much like Tom Branson, Jerry Donnelly found himself living on the streets and also on his wits. Like Tom Branson, Jerry Donnelly was a good looking lad, but unlike Tom, Jerry was definitely not a ladies' man. Not surprisingly, Jerry soon found that he could put both his youth and good looks to practical use by being of service, principally, but not exclusively, to those so inclined members of the large Dublin garrison of the British army who wished to avail themselves and pay handsomely for the privilege of doing so, for what it was young Jerry had to offer. Eventually settled in lodgings off Talbot Street, in the heart of the Monto, Dublin's notorious red light district, young Jerry Donnelly soon had an extensive, but very select, clientele which, in a very short space of time, began to provide him with the ample means with which he was able to indulge his newly acquired taste for many of life's little luxuries.

With the outbreak of war in August 1914, like many other Irishmen, Jerry Donnelly found himself seduced, albeit in completely a different way to that which he was used to hitherto, this time by the rhetoric of the Irish politician John Redmond who claimed that those seeking Irish independence could best achieve that aim by helping to ensure "the speedy and overwhelming victory of England and the Allies". Although there was then no conscription in Ireland, and no requirement for him to do so, with his extensive experience of most things military, it seemed only natural that Jerry Donnelly enlist in the 16th Irish Division and do his bit for King and Country. This young Jerry duly did, was sent over to France, and there gained extensive experience, especially in and around Messines, in yet more matters military, but this time of an entirely different kind: the use of all manner of explosives.

As things were eventually to turn out, Jerry Donnelly might have been interested in learning that in going overseas and being trained in the use of explosives, he was following in the footsteps of someone he would undoubtedly have much admired. The individual in question was a certain Guy Fawkes who, as a soldier of fortune in the Low Countries in the late sixteenth century, had proceeded to put his experience gained with explosives to good effect when he made a spectacular, albeit ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to blow up the English parliament in the notorious Gunpowder Plot in 1605.

Discharged from the army at the end of 1918, a world weary Sergeant Jerry Donnelly returned home to Dublin. But, since the failure of the Easter Rising, the Dublin to which he returned now looked askance at those who had served with the forces of the British Crown in the Great War, many of whom found themselves ostracised and unwelcome.

Through a chance meeting, ex-Sergeant Donnelly, late of the 16th Irish Division, found his way to Phil Shanahan's public-house in the Monto, a well-known meeting place for those seeking the creation of a new and independent Ireland, to be achieved by whatever means were deemed necessary to make the dream a reality. Desperate to play a part in Ireland's new bid for freedom, in an attempt to re-integrate himself into the community, to make new friends, with his unrivalled knowledge of the use of explosives, Donnelly soon found himself welcomed into the ranks of the nascent Irish Republican Army which had established several safe houses for members of its Flying Columns seeking a bolt hole in Dublin here in the very heart of the same area.

Donnelly approached his military targets here in Ireland, just as he had approached similar objectives on the Western Front over in France. Part of his preparations involved, insofar as was at all possible, a thorough reconnoitring of the intended target. This he did calmly, methodically, objectively, and with complete and utter indifference as to what would befall anyone unlucky enough to be in the vicinity when his carefully placed explosive charges were duly detonated. As far as Donnelly was concerned the attack planned on officers of the Dublin Metropolitan Police in the vicinity of the Shelbourne Hotel was simply another such enterprise.

Founded in 1824, the luxurious Shelbourne Hotel, on the north side of St. Stephen's Green was the haunt of both the upper echelons of the British administration and the wealthiest members of Dublin society. Unbeknown to its guests, which was hardly surprising, beneath the magnificent building, there lay a veritable warren of cellars and store rooms, the existence of which would have remained equally unknown and inaccessible to Donnelly too had not another fortuitous chance meeting revealed their existence to him. And that meeting took the form of Donnelly, while walking down Amiens Street, running into a former client Francis (known to his friends as Frank) Brennan once a corporal with the Royal Irish Fusiliers, rather down on his luck, and now employed in a menial capacity, and detesting it, as a lowly porter at the Shelbourne Hotel.

It was after a particularly convivial evening, where one thing led to another, spent in part at the Volta Picture Theatre on Mary Street watching Charlie Chaplin in both "Shoulder Arms" and "A Dog's Life" followed by lengthy sojourns in a couple of bars, before finally ending up in Donnelly's bed in his old flat that Jerry now learned from Frank of those rooms beneath the Shelbourne Hotel and the existence too of an old, abandoned culvert which ran part way out under the street at the front of the building. Thereafter, all things now considered, there began to form in Donnelly's fertile mind the kernel of an idea as to just how he might be able to realise his latest objective...


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty Seven

At The Shelbourne Hotel

Later the following afternoon, after she had duly completed her early morning shift at the Coombe, Sybil, still dressed in her nurse's uniform, although she took care to conceal it carefully beneath her nondescript grey overcoat, found herself entering the palatial splendour of the imposing Shelbourne Hotel, in search of both Mary and Edith.

The magnificent hotel's bullet scarred red brick façade bore mute witness to the savagery of the fighting which had taken place here scarcely three years ago during the failed Easter Rising. At that time British troops had occupied the hotel so as to be able to fire down upon those Volunteers who rather unwisely had chosen to take up military positions in St. Stephen's Green; unwisely since the park was overlooked on all sides by high buildings, including the Shelbourne Hotel. The only moment of levity in the whole deadly business had come when both sides had agreed to a temporary ceasefire to permit the park keepers of St. Stephen's Green access to feed the starving ducks on the ornamental lake.

Given the rapidly deteriorating military and political situation, both in and around Dublin, it was vital to keep the arrival of her two sisters in Ireland and the reason for it as unobtrusive as possible. So, the previous night, sitting by the warmth of the range in Ma's homely kitchen in Clontarf, she and Tom had agreed upon a simple stratagem as to what Sybil should say on her arrival at the hotel's reception desk if it proved necessary for her to have to ask for Mary and Edith by name. And knowing that the safety of her two sisters, not to mention that of both her and Tom depended on them all being on their guard, Sybil had had every intention of following to the letter what she and Tom had previously agreed. But circumstances were to dictate otherwise.

Because of an unexpected admission to the hospital, Sybil was late leaving work and her thoughts were, understandably, solely given over to getting to the hotel as quickly as possible. So it was that, as the wound her way purposefully along the busy, crowded streets and caught the tram from beneath Nelson's Pillar, she failed to notice the men who were shadowing her footsteps.

However, her late arrival at her destination did not prevent Sybil stopping to gasp in amazement as she stepped inside the front doors of the Shelbourne Hotel. Compared to the degradation and the destitution which, after she got off the tram, she encountered on a daily basis both walking to and from her work at the hospital in the Coombe area of the city, her arrival at the Shelbourne was like stepping into another world, comparable in her experience to the life she had previously enjoyed at Downton Abbey.

In front of her stretched a solid marble floor, which drew her eyes inwards towards the foot of an elegant soaring staircase with an intricately worked balustrade of wrought iron, flanked at its base by a pair of elegant torchières, and which ascended upwards through all five floors of the magnificent building.

To her left and to her right were beautifully appointed public rooms, richly decorated with carved plasterwork, gilded columns, cut glass mirrors, and expensive furnishings. Smartly dressed men and women, turned out in the height of fashion, whether they were hotel guests or visitors was immaterial, strolled at their leisure through the richly appointed building, without a care in the world, oblivious to the poverty and squalor which existed but a mile or so distant from the doors of this very hotel.

As in so many things, thought Sybil, Tom was right. After all, a political and social system which perpetuated a life of privilege and luxury for the few, while condemning the majority to a life of misery and squalor, was totally unacceptable. Things had to change. And, the sooner they did so, the better for all concerned.

Sybil turned on her heel and walked quickly towards the hotel's reception desk. She had all but reached it when she heard a familiar pair of voices cheerfully calling out her name.

"Why, Sybil, darling, there you are!"

She came to an abrupt stop and turned to see both Mary and Edith, all smiles, rapidly descending the last few steps of the main staircase and hurrying across the entrance hall towards her. All the cares of the past days and weeks, all thoughts of concern over their safety, were momentarily forgotten in an impulsive outbreak of sisterly hugs, kisses, and animated chatter. And it was precisely now that one of the men who had followed Sybil from the Coombe to the very entrance of the Shelbourne Hotel, chose his moment to slip away entirely unnoticed.

Following their happy reunion, a short while later found all three of them, seated in the elegant dining room of the Shelbourne, taking afternoon tea. Despite it being summer, a bright fire burned in a polished steel grate and round about them could be heard the discreet gentle murmur of subdued polite conversation, the chink of china and cutlery, with uniformed waiters on hand to attend instantly to every need, however trivial.

"… so, I really don't see how any of this ridiculous, silly nonsense concerns either of us. Or indeed you, Sybil dear" said Mary dismissively.  
"Well, if you don't, Mary, you should" said Sybil. At times, she thought, both Mary and Edith could be remarkably, perhaps willfully, stupid. And this was one of those occasions.

"And it's not silly nonsense. Why only yesterday …" Sybil was about to tell Mary and Edith about the ambush on the road from Howth but then thought better of it. All they would think was that by her association with Tom, he had ended up endangering her life and placing her in mortal danger.

"Why only what?" asked Mary primly.

"It doesn't matter, Mary" Sybil shook her head. "But it surely can't have escaped your notice, either of you, that the British aren't exactly popular here in Ireland. The sooner they all leave and let Ireland have its independence, the better it will be. For everyone".

"And is that your own opinion, or Branson's?" asked Edith.

"Why should Tom have anything to do with what I think or believe, Edith? He's not my keeper. Don't you think I'm able to become informed, to have opinions and views of my own?" asked Sybil with barely concealed annoyance.

"No, no, of course not" said Edith blushing furiously, earnestly praying that Sybil would not flare up like a firework and set off in high dudgeon on one of her crusading tirades.

"And as for both of you saying that nothing's going on, have either of you actually bothered to read the newspapers since your arrival over here? I presume you do know what happened to Curraghmore, down near Cork - the house which belonged to the Tremaynes, friends of Papa and Mama? It was burnt to the ground a few weeks ago".

"Really? And just how do you know that, Sybil dear?" asked Mary. "After all, even with my limited knowledge of Ireland, Cork isn't anywhere near Dublin. Or is this another of Branson's lurid scare stories? I can just imagine how he'd relish reporting the burning down of Downton!"

"Stop calling him Branson! His name's Tom! How on earth can you say that?" asked Sybil appalled. "He's not like that. You don't even know him. Why, he's the gentlest man I know. Tom abhors violence. He's a socialist, **not** a revolutionary".

"They're one and the same to me" said Mary. "And to Papa!"  
"Well, they're not" said Sybil. "And you can tell dearest Papa what I said, word for word!"

"I've absolutely no intention of doing that!" said Mary. "Why, sometimes Sybil I don't think you hear a word I say!"

"Just now I find you all too audible" said Sybil tartly. "And anyway, what happened to Curraghmore had nothing to do with Tom. For your information, he works for the Irish Independent; the burning of Curraghmore was reported in detail in the Irish Times.

"As if that matters" said Mary stuffily. "In any case what need can there possibly be for newspapers in Dublin? Why, I doubt there are more than a handful of people over here in this benighted place who can even read or write!"

"Really" said Sybil. "Do tell me Mary, have you ever heard of the Book of Kells?"

"What's that?" asked Mary dismissively. "Another Irish newspaper I suppose?"

"And **you** have the gall to think the **Irish** stupid!" said Sybil shaking her head in disbelief.

"I beg your …"

Sensing Mary was about to say something cutting, Edith hurriedly interposed.

"And … where is … Bran …er Tom?" she asked, rapidly changing the subject. "Isn't he going to join us?"  
"He probably heard I was going to be here and thought better of it" said Mary sarcastically.

"Probably. After all, he is rather particular about who he meets" said Sybil looking directly at Mary.

Mary grimaced.

"I really don't know what can possibly be keeping him" said Sybil anxiously to Edith.

"No gentleman would ever keep a lady waiting" said Mary tartly and took another sip of tea.

"So am I to assume that was why Richard was so late in arriving at Downton last Friday?" asked Edith innocently.

"And just what do you mean by that, Edith? You're surely not suggesting that Sir Richard Carlisle is not a gentleman?" asked Mary.

"Not at all" said Edith archly. "I wasn't suggesting **that** at all".

Realising the other implication of Edith's remark, Mary felt her cheeks begin to redden.

Seeing that Sybil was continuing to worry, Edith turned to her.

"Don't worry, Sybil. He'll be here soon; I'm sure of it". Edith patted Sybil's gloved hand re-assuringly.

"As far as I'm concerned, if I never see Branson again, it will be soon enough" said Mary acidly.

"Mary! How can you say such a thing?" asked Edith thoroughly appalled at her elder sister's insensitive dismissal of Sybil's fiancé.

Whatever Edith might once have thought of the singular unsuitability of her younger sister's choice of husband, she knew only too well that Sybil had fallen hopelessly in love with their former chauffeur, and he with her. And, if the truth be told, Edith yearned desperately to find her own version of Tom Branson somewhere in the world beyond the gilded cage of Downton Abbey.

"As it happens, quite easily" said Mary, peremptorily setting down her teacup with a clatter.

Sensing Sybil was about to respond in like cutting manner, once again Edith acted swiftly.

"We had a little bit of problem down at Kingstown" she said hurriedly.  
"Oh, really" said Sybil, "and what was that?"

"Well ..." began Edith

"It was nothing, darling" said Mary cutting in. "Some tiresome, stupid mix up over unloading our luggage. Anyway, it's all sorted now. One of our cases, one of mine in fact, went missing for a while. The porters at the station at Kingstown were really quite off hand about it; downright rude in fact. I suppose it's a sign of the times".

"What is?" asked Sybil.

"Well, since the war ... people getting above themselves, darling. You know railway porters ... domestic servants ... even **chauffeurs** ..."

"You know Mary, sometimes …" began Sybil.  
"Mary" said Edith, laying a hand on her elder sister's wrist, "you promised ..."

"Promised what" said a soft, lilting Irish voice from behind them.

"Tom, darling!" squealed Sybil with obvious heartfelt delight. "Where have you been? I was beginning to think you weren't coming!"  
"Hello love" he said with a wink. Mary winced, and then registered her displeasure at their easy, open informality by raising her eyebrows expressively.

Tom and Sybil took absolutely no notice of her whatsoever.

"Miss me then?" asked Tom, gazing down adoringly at Sybil.

"What do you think, Tom Branson?" asked Sybil looking up at him, her gaze a mirror image of his own.

Momentarily, Tom and Sybil both seemed to be completely oblivious of the presence of her two sisters, indeed of anyone else seated in the hotel dining room, save each other.

"Something came up ... apart from what I mentioned. There was an incident over on Aungier Street. After I got back from covering the fun, I came straight over here on the tram. After all, I wouldn't miss this. Not for the world" said Tom, a mischievous smile playing across his lips. Then, without a moment's further thought, Tom bent down towards Sybil and kissed her fully on the lips. Instinctively Sybil's arms went up and around Tom's neck, drawing him down closer to her.

"Sybil" hissed Mary. "There may be people here who know us! Please try to remember **who **you are ... **where** you are".

Tom winked at Sybil. Gently, regretfully, they broke apart, his right hand softly caressing her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

"And do you really believe **I** care a fig for what people here might think?" asked Sybil, glancing round the assembled throng of those partaking of afternoon tea in the Shelbourne Hotel's elegant dining room. She dismissed them all in an instant with an angry wave of her hand.

"Clearly not" said Mary, dabbing daintily at the corner of her mouth with her white linen napkin, and now thoroughly appalled by her youngest sister's open, unaffected display of affection towards her fiancé. "But if you no longer have any kind of reputation to lose, **I** most certainly do!"  
"**Do you**?" asked Edith knowingly.

"And just what do you mean by that, sister dear?" asked Mary suspiciously.

But before Edith could reply, a waiter arrived at their table bearing two steaming silver pots, one of fresh hot water, the other of tea, thus sparing her from any further embarrassment. Reluctantly, Tom and Sybil drew apart, grinning at each other, both obviously sharing the same thought. Why, it was just like being back at Downton; someone watching their every move. Tom took the remaining empty chair next to Sybil and adjacent to Edith.

"Would you like a cup of tea Brans ... sorry, force of habit ... er, Tom?" asked Edith.

"Yes, please, I would... Thank you Lady Edith" said Tom. "That's kind of you". Tom sat and quietly sipped his tea.

"No formality, please" said Edith. "After all we're almost related.

"**Almost** isn't quite the same as **actually**" said Mary pithily. "A lot can happen between now and Saturday".

"Like what?" asked Sybil "Are you planning on having Tom shot?"

"And if she is, do I get a last request?" asked Tom playfully.

Ignoring the obvious flippancy of Tom's remark, Mary turned to Sybil.

"Why darling, **that **particular thought had never even crossed my mind. But now you come to mention it, perhaps an urgent request made to the Viceroy to dispose of undesirable ..."

"Mary, please ..." began Edith.

Tom grinned broadly

"Mary please nothing" responded Mary haughtily.

Ignoring Edith's heartfelt plea, and turning to Tom, Mary looked directly at him. Expectantly, almost as if he was expecting a severe reprimand, Tom set down his empty tea cup into its saucer, folded his arms, and waited.

"And **you** can wipe that self satisfied grin off your face, Branson. You may now be my sister's fiancé, but **I **expect all previous formalities to be strictly observed to the letter … both now and in the future!" Mary shot a withering, contemptuous glance at Edith. "Even if others are half-witted enough to choose to do otherwise" she added primly.

"Mary ..." began Sybil.

"It's all right, love" interposed Tom, patting her hand, and slipping into the deep Irish brogue which he had employed towards her on their train journey from Kingstown into Dublin several weeks ago. "Really, oi don't mind. After all, oi must remember to be polite and respectful to my social betters" he said straight faced; the mischief sparkling in his eyes made it only too obvious that he thought nothing of the sort. He grinned broadly.

Turning back to Mary, Tom, tugged an imaginary forelock, and then looked her coolly in the eye, said "Oi wouldn't have it any other way. After all, as a young lad, me ma always told me it was t'hoight of impertinence to address an **older** woman by her Christian name. **Lady** Mary it is. And **Lady** Mary it must be for sure" he said and without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

"I beg your pardon? **Older** woman?" Patches of colour flamed across Mary's cheeks. Biting back a stinging retort, she nearly choked on her tea, spluttered indignantly instead.

"Just how **old** do you think I am, Branson?"  
And when Tom opened his mouth, seemingly to respond, Mary cut him short.

"Don't you dare, Branson. Don't you even answer that. That wasn't what I meant, as well you know! This is perfectly intolerable. What am I doing here? Oh, for just a little peace!" said Mary with more than a hint of exasperation in her voice.

"A little peace?" queried Tom. "Why so modest? How about eternal peace, now there's a thought!" He winked devilishly, chuckled merrily, and then winced as Sybil kicked his shins hard under the table. Never deflated for long, Tom grinned broadly again, turned easily and nonchalantly on his chair towards Edith, who like Sybil was now trying desperately, and failing, to keep a straight face.

"**Edith**, would you mind awfully pouring me another cup of tea?" he asked of her politely in his best mimicry of an upper class English accent.

"Of course, **Tom**", said Edith, stifling a giggle with her gloved hand. "Would you like a slice of chocolate cake? It really is rather yummy".

"Thanks, Edith" said Tom. "Sure and don't mind if I do".

As for Edith, it wasn't often that she saw Mary, her elegantly poised elder sister, so lost for words, so thoroughly disconcerted. The experience, Edith found not only novel, but rather like the piece of chocolate cake she had just served up to Tom - delicious and wickedly pleasurable.

As she caught Edith's eye, Sybil grinned, shook her head. Honestly, Tom, thought Sybil, you are absolutely incorrigible. And that, my darling, is just another reason why I love you so very, very much. Sensing Sybil's eyes upon him, as he greedily wolfed down the large slice of chocolate cake, Tom looked up. Seeing Sybil smile at him, his eyes sparkling with mischief, he smiled broadly back at her, and totally unrepentant.

"Edith, that really was absolutely yummy. Why, the last time I ate a piece of cake as good as this, I must have been about ten years old" laughed Tom. He grinned at Edith, licking his lips and then his fingers repeatedly, his blue eyes continuing to sparkle.

And, in spite of everything, Edith found herself grinning back. For it was then that the thought struck her with the force of an express train. Why on earth hadn't she ever noticed it before? With his fair hair, his dark blue eyes, his good looks, his boyish, roguish, engaging manner, Tom was so ... so utterly adorable! No wonder her younger sister had fallen head over heels in love with him.

"Oh, Tom, you are an utter mess. Here, let me". Sybil dabbed Tom's lips and fingers clean with her napkin. "There now, that's much better!"  
"Well, really! Now I've seen everything!" said Mary indignantly.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty Eight

Down Twenty Three Steps

All but lost to sight in the patchwork of deep shadows cast by the imposing rear facade of the huge building, the narrow flight of dirty, worn stone steps led downwards to a small dank area and stopped in front of a long-disused door that once provided a means of access into the dimly lit rabbit warren of cellars and store rooms which lay beneath the majestic bulk of the Shelbourne Hotel.

About the exact time that a beautiful, dark haired young woman entered beneath the ornate, grandiose front entrance of the hotel, where shortly she expected to meet with her fiancé and two sisters, a man dressed in the smart uniform of a porter of the Shelbourne Hotel set down a heavy canvas knap sack at the foot of the flight of steps at the rear of the very same building. Indeed, but a matter of minutes earlier the paths of the young, dark haired woman and the neophyte hotel porter had all but crossed. However, even if they had done so, it is unlikely that either would have paid much attention to the other, each being so pre-occupied with their own affairs.

Glancing cautiously and furtively above him into the square of daylight, satisfied that there was indeed no-one about to see what it was he did next, the man extracted a small key from out of one of the pockets of his porter's jacket and then carefully inserted it into the rusty keyhole of the cobwebbed door in front of him. The new key, copied from the original obtained for him by Frank Brennan in lieu of payment for services rendered, had been cut for Donnelly by an equally obliging locksmith, sympathetic to the cause, who kept a small shop just off Railway Street not far from the Hynes Public House.

It was providential, thought Donnelly that he and Brennan were of almost the same height and build, let alone of much the same colouring too. Wearing the uniform of a porter of the hotel, at a discrete distance, and certainly down here in the shadows, let alone in the dimly lit passages below the Shelbourne, he would easily pass for Brennan. As for the owner of the aforesaid uniform he was now wearing, from past experience, Donnelly knew only too well that Frank Brennan was inclined to be somewhat indiscrete, to become morose, somewhat self-pitying, and rather too talkative when in liquor. So therefore, so as to forestall Brennan making any injudicious comments, that same morning Donnelly had asked a couple of his new found pals in the Dublin Brigade of the Irish Republican Army to take the necessary steps to ensure this did not happen. Not that he wanted Brennan harmed in any way. Donnelly was very clear about that.

Happy to oblige their recently recruited explosives' expert, Donnelly was informed that Brennan would come to no harm in their hands, that he would be taken to a safe house, and kept there incommunicado, until after the attack on the rozzers near the Shelbourne Hotel had been successfully concluded.

Having had an absolute skinful the previous night, Brennan was still fast asleep in bed when the men from the IRA came calling; in fact, he probably never really knew what happened. Easily overpowered, tightly gagged and bound, wearing nothing but his underwear, he was taken from Donnelly's lodgings just off Talbot Street down the back staircase of the building and out into a small yard where a motor, its engine already running, stood waiting,

Unfortunately, sadly, sometimes, circumstances dictate that a promise made on the spur of the moment cannot be kept; although, perhaps, on this occasion, there never was any real intention that it ever be kept in the first place. For after his enforced removal from Donnelly's lodgings, thereafter, Brennan was never seen again in Dublin, or indeed anywhere else for that matter.

What ultimately became of Frank Brennan, Donnelly himself was destined never to find out. It is possible that the headless corpse of a naked man found entangled in the fishing nets of a trawler off Howth Head some months later may well have been Brennan, but the body was never identified. After all, there was precious little chance of that. Evidently the corpse had been in the sea for some considerable time, was headless, naked, with no personal effects whatsoever, and, it was obvious that at some stage it had suffered a close encounter with the revolving propellers of passing ship. Eventually, after a perfunctory post mortem, the pathetic remains were given a pauper's funeral and buried in an unmarked grave in the quiet churchyard of the ruined abbey of St. Mary's at Howth overlooking the cold, grey waters from whence they had been but recently recovered.

Once he had unlocked the door, Donnelly turned the knob only to find to his horror that the door itself refused to budge. For one awful moment, he feared that Brennan had forgotten to drop the bolts the previous night, cursed him silently, but then seeing how tightly the door fitted in its frame, he realised that it was swollen with damp. Putting his shoulder close against the paint flaked wood, Donnelly shoved hard several times, until at last he felt the door begin to move. One final push should do it he thought, pausing in his endeavours, waiting his moment, until the heavy rumblings of a motor lorry leaving the yard above him conveniently masked the sound of any splintering woodwork, and then pushed with all his might.

The door swung inwards on its hinges to reveal a dimly lit stone flagged passage, that disappeared off into the gathering gloom, and which smelt damp and musty, mixed with the unmistakeable smell of coal gas. Shouldering his laden knapsack, pulling the door to behind him, Donnelly set off down the passage, in the general direction of the front of the building.

He moved deeper into the bowels of the hotel. So far so good he thought.

But, unfortunately, appearances can often be deceptive.

In the cloying darkness of the subterranean passage beneath the Shelbourne Hotel, deep within his canvas knap sack, lacking their customary protective paraffin coated packets, beads of sweat were already beginning to form on several of the dozen or so sticks of gelignite. During the war, over in England, potassium nitrate used in the manufacture of explosives had become increasingly scarce, and owing to the shortage of this chemical being readily obtainable, some of the gelignite then produced contained sodium nitrate instead, which absorbed moisture much more quickly. Of course, this fact would not have been apparent to those members of the Dublin Brigade who had engineered the raid on the quarry's explosive store just outside the city. Nor would they have paid any attention to the fact that at the time of the raid the explosives which were stolen, had already been neatly separated into two distinct piles, with that made up of the gelignite sticks containing sodium nitrate awaiting careful disposal by means of a controlled explosion, After all, to the untrained eye, one stick of gelignite looked remarkably much like any other.

But the dangers so described would have been only too obvious to a man used to handling explosives like Donnelly. And the fast deteriorating state of some of the explosives he was now carrying on his back would have been obvious, self evident in fact, if only he had bothered to check the contents of his knapsack rather more thoroughly than he did. But not wishing to seem to be suspicious or untrusting of his new acquaintances, he had merely nodded, given what they provided for him no more than a cursory glance, which in the circumstances was quite deplorable.

With his military background and extensive training, as well as having witnessed several needless deaths over in France caused by the careless handling of both detonators and explosives, a man like Jerry Donnelly really ought to have known better.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty Nine

Misere Mei Deus

When Tom had told Sybil that something had come up over on Aungier Street, in a manner of speaking, so indeed it had; that in itself was true enough. Even at this early stage of his journalistic career, Tom's contacts were both many and varied. Earlier that same morning, indeed at the very last minute, after he had already covered the demonstration down on the quays about which he had heard previously, Tom had learned of a clandestine meeting being organised by a group of members of the Irish Transport and General Workers' Union. In this instance, Tom's contact had been William O'Brien, the leading figure in the Union, the Irish Labour Party, and the Trade Union Congress.

This particular meeting had been called to discuss the innovative idea of doing something rather more than just simply continuing to demonstrate against the daily unloading down on the quays of munitions and supplies destined for use by the British Army. What was now under active consideration was a proposal which, if implemented, would result in completely preventing the offloading of any cargo intended for the British military. Efforts were presently under way to try and gauge the likely level of support for such a course of action as was currently being debated. If put into effect, this would involve the total boycott of any vessel berthing alongside the quays in the city which was known to be, or was found to be, carrying any merchandise destined for the use of the army. Those at the meeting were hopeful that if such a widespread boycott could be agreed and arranged, that many railway workers could also be persuaded to join in as well so as to make what was envisaged even more effective.

However, Tom's own coverage of the secret meeting, held in an upstairs back room at the Swan public house on Aungier Street and with the full agreement of its publican John O'Reilly, explained only in part the real reason for his late arrival at the Shelbourne. Anyone who knew Dublin, as well as Tom undoubtedly did, would have told you that Aungier Street lay close to St. Stephen's Green, was in fact slightly to the north-west, and was not very far either from the Shelbourne Hotel. So, if it had been only just the matter of Tom covering the meeting, which in any case was concluded within an hour or so, a brisk walk from Aungier Street over to St. Stephen's Green would have taken someone of his age and physical fitness twenty minutes, perhaps somewhat less to complete; certainly no longer.

Of course, Sybil had naturally taken Tom's comment at face value. After all, why would she do anything else? She had every faith in him, knew that he had the makings of a very fine journalist, that he was well respected by both his editor and his colleagues as someone who was single-minded in the pursuit of his enquiries and who would in his articles report things as they were, without fear or favour. It was obvious to Sybil that, all things being equal, Tom could be sure of going far in his newly chosen profession. Admittedly somewhat reluctantly, Sybil was also slowly coming to terms with the fact of Tom being unable, or even, on occasions, perhaps unwilling, at times both, to discuss some of the people with whom he met, the places he went to, and some of the awful things which he, as a journalist, was called upon to cover. Nevertheless, she had come to respect that Tom had what he, with a wry, lop-sided grin, a smile, and a chuckle, chose laughingly to refer to as "his journalistic diplomatic secrets".

Having covered the protest down on the quays, Tom slipped back into his offices on Talbot Street to type up some copy. That done, shortly thereafter, he made his way down out of the building, and set off on his way over to cover the meeting in the Swan public house in Aungier Street. Quite by chance, at the nearby junction between Talbot Street and Marlborough Street, he encountered a group of twenty or so young boys all in the uniform of the Palestrina Choir on their way to the Catholic Pro-Cathedral which stood nearby. As a young boy, Tom had sung in the choir of his boarding school down in Cork - the Christian Brothers College in St. Patrick's Place.

Like Sybil, Tom was not someone who had a great deal of faith in ordered religion. He had a faith of sorts, but not that much in Christianity, more especially after the death of his parents, on account of what he had suffered as a young boy. After all, who had looked out for him then?

Whether or not it was the sight of the boys of the Palestrina Choir, or the fact that his mother had seen that he had been brought up as a Catholic, Tom felt he owed it to her, if to no-one else, least of all to himself, to make some form of peace with his Maker, to wash the slate clean, and now seemed the most appropriate time to do so; given the fact that in marrying Sybil Crawley, he was very shortly to embark upon perhaps the greatest adventure of his life. So, maybe that was what put him in mind of doing something which, if Tom was honest with no-one else except himself, he should have done a very long time ago; of going to Confession. As to whether he could go through with it given what he had to ... well that was a different matter entirely.

It was while he was pondering exactly what he should do, that Tom's feet slowed and he came to an abrupt stop almost in exactly the same spot in the middle of the O'Connell Bridge beneath the ornate lamp post where he and Sybil had kissed so passionately a matter of but a few days earlier. Resting his elbows on the stone balustrade of the bridge, completely oblivious to all other passers-by, wholly lost in thought, Tom gazed down into the grey, slow flowing waters of the Liffey for what seemed an age, although it could, in reality, have been no more than a few minutes.

Eventually, his mind at last made up, Tom stood up, turned abruptly on his heel, and in so doing almost collided with a man carrying a heavy knapsack on his back walking southwards across the bridge.

"Sorry, that was my fault entirely. I should have looked where I was going" apologised Tom shamefaced.

"No matter. There's no harm done" said the other man, his gruffness belying his words. He nodded, calmly re-adjusted the weight of his knapsack, and, without further ado, strode off purposefully towards the southern end of the O'Connell Bridge. And that was it. Both men went on their separate ways. And, thus it was, although neither of them was destined ever to know it, that Jerry Donnelly and Tom Branson met for the first and last time in their lives.

Later...

St. Audoen's, on the south side of the Liffey, was the oldest parish church in Dublin, but it was to the more recently built Catholic church of the same name that stood close by that Tom now wended his purposeful way. It was odd, but he had not felt this nervous in a long while. He viewed what he was about to do with as much fear and trepidation as what he had done on that never-to-be-forgotten evening, when, finally throwing caution to the four winds, he had audaciously walked into the Drawing Room at Downton Abbey to stand proudly alongside Sybil while she announced to her stunned parents - hastily Tom mentally corrected himself, stunned **and **outraged, at least as far as her father was concerned - that they were engaged, would marry in Dublin, where they would settle, work, and together, God willing, raise a family.

A short while thereafter and Tom reached his present destination; his own Calvary.

The imposing stone, columned, pedimented, statued bulk of the front of St. Audoen's stood before him. Shouldering his leather satchel, taking a very deep breath, nervously, Tom pushed open the massive wooden door and, his footsteps echoing noisily on the flagstones, walked slowly forward into the body of the church, in search of the priest.

Inside the church, under the roof, beneath the soaring coffered arch of the ceiling, it was both cool and light; a riot of colour. The air was heavy with incense. And there was something else too. A cold, sour, stale smell. Of mould and decay. Tom grimaced. Damp he thought. Or perhaps ... unanswered prayers.

Tom's blue eyes flicked from the massive four pillared ciborium above the High Altar, taking in the ornate wooden pulpit, thence around the white walls, seeing the carved statues of the saints, the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Could he really do this, given what it was he had to confess?

In the silent vastness of the empty, echoing building, soft footfalls sounded somewhere behind him. Wary, immediately on his guard, instantly, Tom spun round on his heel.

"Can I help you, my son?" the white haired black clad priest enquired of him. He had a kindly face, his bright, deep-set eyes almost lost to sight, buried in a sea of deep wrinkles.

"I don't know ... I'm not sure if anyone can" said Tom hesitantly.

The priest looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, intently searching Tom's face.

Tom stood his enquiring gaze.

"I think ... that a very long journey has brought you here my son" said he at length. Then laying a gentle hand on Tom's shoulder, the priest smiled benignly at him

Tom nodded.

It was time.

"Father ... please will you hear my confession?"


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Of Varying Degrees Of Difficulty

**Difficult**. There was no denying it. This would indeed be difficult.

As Tom knelt there on the hard, narrow prie-dieu in the quiet darkness of the confessional, through the patterned wooden lattice work of the screen he could see the profile of the kindly old priest waiting patiently for him to begin. This is not going to be easy thought Tom. He crossed himself fervently.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned".

"How long has it been since your last confession my son?"

"I'm ..." His voice faltered, then Tom recovered himself somewhat. "To be honest I'm not exactly sure, father". Tom paused again. "A very long time. Years, certainly" he said softly.

"And why is that my son?" asked the old priest gently.

"That ... to explain why ... Well, that's rather **difficult** ..."

"**Difficult**?" Mary all but spat the word. "May I remind you that I am the eldest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham and I am not used to being kept waiting! Certainly not by some grubby little hotel manager!" She slammed the telephone receiver back in its cradle. Next to it, the ornate vase filled to overflowing with exquisitely arranged cut flowers wobbled ominously.

"Mary, please" said Edith.

Standing quietly by one of the windows on the other side of the shared sitting room of their third floor suite at the front of the Shelbourne Hotel, Edith was looking out across the busy road below her over to St. Stephen's Green.

"Good Lord, there's a military band assembling down there. Oh Mary, do come and look!"

"I don't really much care if it's a performing troupe of Irish dwarves dancing the Can Can" said Mary contemptuously. "Why on earth did I ever let you persuade me into coming over here in the first place? Richard told me I was a fool to even contemplate it. Matthew said much the same thing too".  
"You know very well why Mary. We're here for Sybil's sake; that's what for. After all, with Mama only just recovered from the influenza and Papa, even if he had deigned to come over to Ireland, likely to turn up to the wedding with a fully loaded shotgun..."

"And precisely who is to blame for that? Not Papa. This is all Branson's fault Edith, as well you know! Why if Papa had dismissed him on the spot, when darling Sybil was injured at the count in Ripon, then none of this awful business would ever have happened. Of course I blame myself".

"How so?" asked Edith with incredulity. After all, in her experience, Mary was not someone who ever admitted to making a mistake.  
"Don't you remember? Oh Edith you can be such an awful ninny. At the time it was **me** that stood up for Branson; **I** told Papa he wasn't to blame".

"Well, from what Sybil said, he wasn't!"

"That's hardly the point" snapped Mary. "As for Sybil, well, given what has happened, she can hardly be considered to have been wholly impartial in her defence of Branson, now can she? Why, I've a very good mind to go down to that column thing we saw earlier on the way over here, stand on a soapbox like one of those ghastly suffragettes Sybil's so fond of supporting and tell everyone over here in Dublin just what I think of **Mr**. ruddy Branson!"

"Oh, Mary! For goodness' sake! Don't be so silly! Don't even think of doing such a thing"

"Why ever not? If Sybil can be allowed to spout her silly nonsense about equality and votes for woman, let alone run off with the ruddy chauffeur ..."

"Mary, she didn't elope ... run off with him, as you call it".

"No, you're damned right she didn't. The two of us put paid to that. Mind you, I should have put a stop to Branson's nonsense a long time before then".

"Aren't you forgetting that Papa gave them his blessing"?

"Thank you Edith, but my memory isn't failing me yet. Of course Papa gave them his blessing. After all, he was left with precious little other option, in order to safeguard the family's reputation!"

"Well, Cousin Isobel seems to think Branson's a very nice young man".

"Cousin Isobel can mind her own damned business. As for being nice, darling, why I've absolutely no doubt that the late Dr. Crippen was a nice young man".

"Surely you're not implying Branson is a murderer?"

"No of course not. No such luck. Although if he were, then that would simplify things considerably. To have Branson arrested for murder, after all the trouble he has caused, well, darling, that would be simply too divine! Apart from the attendant publicity of course. Granny would cope with it all I suppose, but I doubt Papa would ever live it down, what with all this trouble over Bates. And as for poor Mama, why, I expect she'd have a touch of the vapours! Then of course there would have to be a trial, well the formality of one at least, the verdict, **guilty** obviously and finally ..."

"Mary! How could you even think of such a thing?"

"Quite easily as it happens. Dear God, a chauffeur for a brother-in-law!" Mary buried her face in her hands. "How utterly mortifying! The absolute shame of it! Whatever next?" Suddenly Mary looked up, eyed her sister suspiciously. "I don't suppose you're harbouring some secret plan to marry one of the tenant farmers on the estate?"  
Edith blushed furiously.

"Well are you?" persisted Mary.

"No, of course not. Whatever made you think of that?" asked Edith mortified.

"I was only joking silly! But thank Heavens you're not! And if a maid is not up here with my towels in the next five minutes, I shall be on ..."

"Mary, do please try and remember what Sybil said in to us both her last letter ... about not drawing attention to ourselves". Edith sighed resignedly. Sisterhood was a lifetime's sentence.

**Difficult**.

That was the only appropriate word to describe her relationship with her elder sister thought Edith. Her relationship with Mary had always been difficult.

Right from the very start, even when they were all children, Mary had always expected both Edith and Sybil to defer to her at every turn. Mary was the eldest and what Mary said went; what Mary wanted she had. In the general scheme of things, the wishes of her two younger sisters were of no account whatsoever. Edith had always borne the brunt of Mary's hostility, her bossy nature, whereas Sybil being the baby of the family, well Mary had liked playing the part of the flawless, matchless, imperious eldest sister; had enjoyed it immensely.

I wonder, thought Edith. Would Mary be so judgemental, so unforgiving of Sybil... of Branson even... if things had turned out differently between her and Matthew? Would Mary have been so **difficult**?

"Please nothing Edith!" stormed Mary. "If our dear, darling Sybil hadn't seen fit to run off with the damned chauffeur - God knows what she sees in him - I wouldn't just have to have had to endure a lengthy conversation with the impertinent imbecile who masquerades as the manager of this third rate hotel - as to why someone on his staff has found it "**difficult**" to ensure that I was provided with fresh towels in my bathroom!"  
"I'm sure it's just an oversight, Mary. There are fresh towels in my bathroom. Would you like to borrow one of ..." offered Edith, trying to pacify her sister. Catching sight of the thunderous look on Mary's face, Edith wished that she hadn't tried to do so; wished that she hadn't said anything at all.

"Thank you no. Is that supposed to make me feel any better, Edith? That **you** have towels? **I don't**! Do you know I expect ruddy Branson's at the bottom of all of this!"

"Oh, come now, Mary, I'm sure even Branson has far more important matters to attend to than..."

"Don't you believe it! You remember what Papa said about him. Why ever since we arrived in this bloody ..."  
"**Mary**! "

"Oh Edith! This is 1919. The war's over. So I'll speak just how I please thank you very much! After all, we're not at one of Mama's ghastly garden parties now. Although come to think of it, anything would be preferable than being stuck here in this..."

Mary drummed her fingers impatiently on the carved top of the walnut escritoire. She swept one manicured forefinger along the edge of the desk.

"**Good God**!" Mary was staring incredulously at the tip of her finger.

"What is it?" asked Edith with a mounting sense of trepidation. "A splinter?"

"No not a splinter, silly. Is that what you think it is Edith? I'll tell you what it is. It's dust. That's what it is. **Bloody **dust!" exclaimed Mary indignantly. She strode purposefully over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

Edith shook her head in despair.

"This is Lady Mary Crawley ...

Yes that's quite correct ... would you please ask him to come to the telephone?

Ah, Mr. O'Reilly".

Yes, it is Lady Mary Crawley, **again**...

Don't say "again" to me in that tone of voice...

Oh, **suite**? Is that what you call it? Really? Well you may call it a suite, but quite frankly, in my opinion there isn't room enough to swing the proverbial cat...

No, I don't have a cat...

**That** is immaterial you ghastly little man. No, I didn't and don't interrupt me. I said **vastly** - vast as in the sense of large ... unlike this so-called suite. Yes, it must be this telephone. That is quite correct. Something larger...

Yes, where there **would **be room to swing a cat; proverbial or otherwise...

Tell me, have you ever sailed on the Olympic?

Oh, you haven't. Well I have and what you call a suite here in this third rate boarding house wouldn't...

Another **suite**?

**The Imperial**? Where the Viceroy once stayed? Oh really.

And are there towels in the bathrooms?

**There are**?

Well, that would do perfectly. And my sister and I will expect the porters directly". Mary slammed down the receiver peremptorily.

"And **that,** Edith dear, is how one deals with the lower orders. Including ex-chauffeurs! It's nothing **difficult**!"

**Difficult**, thought Sybil, as the red brick façade of the luxurious Shelbourne Hotel hove into view, and she prepared to get down from off the tram; this morning's shift at the Coombe had been difficult. Dealing with a still birth and then enduring verbal abuse from a patient who took virulent exception to her being English, referring to her openly and volubly, in the hearing of the matron and her fellow nurses on the ward, as "that feckin' English bitch", Of course, Sybil had encountered such unpleasantness before, but for some strange reason, this morning it had rankled, had stung, more so than or previous occasions.

Maybe she was simply overwrought with worry, which given what both she and Tom had experienced in the last couple of days, was understandable enough. If that, all of it, had not been bad enough, she was, in fact, rather dreading her encounter with both Mary and Edith, had admitted as much openly to Tom, which was why she had sought his reassurance that he would indeed join all three of them for tea this afternoon here in the opulent surroundings of the Shelbourne Hotel.

Mary and Edith were her sisters, but much as she loved them both dearly, and always would do, Sybil felt, no knew, that she was no longer really a part of the social world which they inhabited; knew also that there were now so many subjects which could not be raised in polite conversation between them, especially anything, in fact everything, to do with Tom.

And why?

All because, in Tom's own self-deprecating words, he was "a boy from a different world"- and that was undoubtedly how her two sisters still viewed him. The ex-chauffeur, who had dared to step out from his appointed place in the social order, by falling in love with and thereafter compounding his presumption by marrying the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham!

And thinking of darling Tom - when did she ever not think of him - he was as dear to her as always; she loved him to utter distraction. As demonstratively and openly loving of her as he had always been, even more so now, as the day of their long anticipated wedding finally dawned; as solicitous for her welfare as ever, last night on the darkened landing of Ma's house had proved that.

They had said their customary goodnights, and then as he did always each night, when they were both home together and before they retired to their respective rooms, Tom had cupped her face with his hands, in itself a simple enough act. He had kissed her tenderly, murmuring "I love you", and thereafter resting his forehead gently against her own, to which she had responded in like measure. They had continued to hold each other close, utterly content, losing all sense of time, as the soft darkness drew down about them, and the silent, sleeping house wrapped them both deep within its own enfolding quietness.

And yet, for all that, there was something. Something which Sybil couldn't quite put her finger on; something was worrying Tom, of that she was certain. To cope with that as well, as everything else, was **difficult**.

"**Difficult**, yes. In a manner of speaking, but also... a release" Tom said haltingly, as together the two of them exited the private confines of the confessional.

Accompanied by Tom, who adjusted his pace accordingly to match that of his elderly companion, the two men walked slowly back down the aisle, as far as the main doors of the church. There the priest turned and lightly rested both of his thin blue veined hands on the young man's shoulders.

"As to what happened, there is no need whatsoever for you to reproach yourself. Nor is there any point saying "If only". What you did then, you did in all innocence, although I suspect the same cannot be said for ... and in your heart, you must, in all honesty, know that to be true. You deserve to be happy and from what you have told me, despite all the difficulties, realising that happiness is now within your grasp".

"But if Sybil ever... Surely I should tell her about..."

The old priest shook his head.

"No, my son. Let the past bury the past and leave it so. You were not to blame. God knows that. Let Him call those who were to account. Coming in here today, and then to tell me, even within the sanctity of the confessional what happened, you have shewn great courage. So, perhaps, Virgil was right after all: omnia vincit amor".  
Tom grinned ruefully at the old man.

"Love conquers all? There father, I do still remember some rags of my schoolboy Latin! Maybe. But, I can assure you that courage had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Far from it. Perhaps, in the end, all it was nothing more than a plea for help. Or perhaps ... desperation!"

The old man smiled.

"Desperation? You? After what you have told me today? No definitely not. Never that". The priest shook his head. "Will you permit an old man one final observation?"

"Gladly".

"Well then. No matter what the pain you have endured, I assure you He **will **end your hurt and dry your tears. Believe that life is truly worth the living and your belief will make that so. Tell me, one thing, though. Why here? After all, there are several other churches here in Dublin much closer to where you work".

"I'm not sure" said Tom. "I think ... I think that I was somehow drawn here".

"Drawn here? Well then, some things are indeed of God, my son".

Tom smiled at the old man.

"If you say so. I can't answer for that. But thank you anyway".

Reaching forward he grasped one end of the priest's purple stole and then brushed his lips reverently against it and a moment later against the back of the priest's right hand.

"When you go from here, you will be in my prayers. Both you and Sybil. God be with you, both".

The priest raised his right hand in blessing and a moment later the sigil was completed.

"Goodbye, father".

"Goodbye my son".

Tom nodded, and then left the church. When he turned and looked back, the priest was still standing in the doorway. Seeing Tom look back, slowly, he raised his right hand in farewell. Tom did likewise and then set off bound for the Shelbourne Hotel. As Tom approached the hotel by way of St. Stephen's Green, he chuckled to himself. Afternoon tea, with Lady Mary Crawley. Now that was likely to prove **difficult**!


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty One

Hot Water

"So, how was your sea crossing, Lady Mary?" asked Tom breezily cheerful, determinedly doing his utmost, indeed his very best to keep the conversation between them flowing, while Sybil and Edith chatted animatedly together about Downton, about family, and about friends.

"**Uneventful**" said Mary, gazing out of the adjacent open window to where the military band was now tuning up. She had absolutely no intention whatsoever of engaging in any kind of small talk with Branson. Good God, **what** on earth did Sybil actually see in him? How could she do this to granny, to Papa, to Mama, to me, to Edith, even to herself? Mary shot a brief pitying glance at her younger sister.

Poor, plain Edith. She had never had much luck with men and now, given the scandal surrounding Sybil, she would be lucky to find anyone under sixty prepared to marry her. Even that old duffer Sir Anthony Strallan had thrown her over - admittedly, not without a helping hand from Mary herself. That had been - good God - back in August 1914 - a lifetime ago, when everyone, including chauffeurs, **especially** chauffeurs, knew their place.

But now, with the war finally over, and, as a result of the unimaginable slaughter over on the Western Front, the consequent and inevitable shortage of eligible male suitors, how would Edith fare in the marriage stakes, when word finally got out, as get out it must, that their youngest sister had upped sticks and run off to marry the family's former chauffeur: was working as a nurse in a women's hospital in a Dublin slum. Dear Lord, why, if nothing was done to prevent it happening, in just two days from now, Lady Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter to the earl and countess of Grantham, dear, darling, delightful Sybil, would become plain Mrs. Branson.

Across the busy road, beyond the massed ranks of the army band, over beyond the constant passage of trams and motors, behind a line of ornate cast iron railings, Mary could see there was a park. A municipal park to be sure - it looked very akin to one she had once glimpsed in Ripon - but, for all that, there were bound to be people there, **her** kind of people. Well, perhaps not exactly her kind of people, but charming, educated, respectable, smartly dressed socially acceptable people nonetheless; all chatting, strolling, and whiling away the pleasant summer afternoon - the kind of people one might meet at the Races at York. Yes, there was even a large ornamental lake - she could glimpse it there through the green foliage of the surrounding trees - with ducks swimming on it and a couple of children playing close by the water's edge with a sailboat.

And here was she, sat in this increasingly hot, stuffy, and airless room, taking afternoon tea with her two sisters. Well the tea itself had been pleasant enough, even if Edith had persisted in asking Sybil the most ridiculously inane questions about her forthcoming wedding, her work as a nurse in some awful women's' hospital, her new life over here in Dublin. And then, after **he **had arrived, Edith had started to ask Branson about his job here as a journalist. The oddest thing was though, Edith had sounded genuinely interested in what both Sybil and Branson had to tell her.

But, thought Mary, while she could just about tolerate Edith's silly chitchat and inconsequential nonsense, as for being seated here at the same table and being forced to make small talk with their former chauffeur, no, that really was quite intolerable.

So far, Mary had studiously avoided looking at Branson when she answered his impertinent questions. God, why on earth did I let Edith talk me into coming over to this wretched place? she thought.

"… and your journey from the railway station to here?" persisted Branson.

"**Tiring**" said Mary, continuing with her all but monosyllabic answers, making it perfectly obvious, she hoped, by her tone, that she viewed this conversation in much the same light. Not that Branson seemed to notice.

Perhaps, thought Mary, he's simple minded, although, come to think of it, he had never given the slightest indication of it at all when he was at Downton; in fact, quite the reverse. Maybe **that **was the secret of Sybil's interest in him: her obsession with the former chauffeur was entirely medical, not physical. That must be it; he was simply another of the numerous unsuitable causes which Sybil, from time to time, had chosen to champion. After all aristocratic young ladies did **not** fall for chauffeurs. It simply wasn't done.

And, come to think of it, hadn't the army actually refused to take Branson during the war? There must therefore be something seriously wrong with him for that to have happened. If only the army **had** taken him, then all this … this singular unpleasantness might so easily have been avoided.

Not that she wished him dead.

Well, not exactly.

"Medically unfit" was the term Sybil had used to her to explain Branson's rejection by the army medical board. Rubbish! Branson looked perfectly physically fit enough to her. In fact, he was rather a fine figure of a … Had Sybil and he already … No … don't even think about … **that**.

So perhaps it was his mental state after all. Yes, that must be it. And … hadn't there been some unpleasantness … involving the contents of a silver soup tureen and a visiting general? Now, if it **could** be shown that Branson was also simple minded, then that might provide an excuse, a convenient way out for Sybil; indeed for them all, from this awful - how was it granny had termed it - oh yes - **mésalliance**.

There must be a legal way to stop this ill matched union. If only Matthew was here, he would have been able to advise her on the legal niceties. Oh Matthew, darling, what a waste. What a needless bloody waste. If **only** they'd been able to resolve matters between themselves. But no, he'd never accept her now; not after that awful business with the ghastly Mr. Pamuk. Of course, if they had managed to sort things out, Matthew would never have become engaged to dear, dead, darling Lavinia, and she wouldn't be saddled with marrying the awful, frightful Sir Richard Carlisle.

Then Mary remembered fragments of a conversation she'd had with Papa, shortly after Sybil and Branson had left for Ireland. What was it Papa had said? Oh, yes. Branson was interested in history and politics. Surely not. That wasn't possible. Not given where he came from, Mary couldn't see how that could possibly be the case. And, as for him being a journalist? Well, what utter rot! She sincerely doubted someone of his status could even read or write sufficiently well to command such a post. Although … Sybil had said something about Branson reading newspapers … in the garage at Downton. Perhaps she had misunderstood. Maybe Sybil had been reading **them **to **him**.

That was it.

Not only simple minded, but illiterate too.

Branson was now asking her something else about their journey here from the railway station. Well, thought Mary that was just the kind of ridiculous question one would expect … from the likes of a former chauffeur. Studiously, she said nothing in reply.

"The hotel sent both a driver and motor over for us" said Edith helpfully.

"A concept with which I'm sure Branson is very familiar" said Mary, coolly sarcastic.

Tom bit back a curt response. Instead, he merely grinned.

"If you'd both taken the tram from the station, you could have seen more of Dublin on your way here" said Sybil brightly.

"And why should I want to do that? I've seen quite enough of Dublin - from the motor" said Mary. "And as for travelling by tram, well I ..."

"Aren't they awfully crowded?" interrupted Edith, trying to forestall Mary from saying anything further injudicious.

"Sometimes" said Sybil. "But you get used to that".

"How utterly ghastly" said Mary.

"You've been on one then Sybil?" Edith sounded intrigued.

"Why of course" said Sybil. "We use them all the time, don't we Tom?"

Affably, Tom nodded his confirmation.

"Yes. We both travel in to Dublin, from Clontarf, on the tram each morning. And then back out there again in the evening, either on our own, or together. Of course, it rather depends on Syb's shifts at the Coombe and also what comes up at the paper. Sometimes I have to work late".

Syb? **Syb**? Mary was appalled. Never once had she ever heard anyone call her sister that. If granny or her parents heard Branson do so, they'd be utterly appalled.

"I would very much liked to have taken a ride on a tram. All those hundreds and hundreds of people, from a wide variety of both backgrounds and places … off on their different journeys" said Edith. The way she said it, she sounded almost wistful.

"Well, if you'd really like to, Edith …, before Sybil and I take the tram back out to Clontarf this evening, perhaps we could all do that. Down to the Pillar and back. Just for fun. What about it? suggested Tom.

"Yes, why don't we" said Sybil enthusiastically.

Mary looked utterly horrified.

"Pillar? What's that?" asked Edith genuinely mystified.

"The tall column, down on Sackville Street. Both of you must have seen it from the motor- with the statue of Nelson on top. All the tram lines in Dublin meet there" said Tom.

"Oh, so that's what it was. I did wonder. Yes, I saw it" said Edith.

"Well, I suppose it's another way for you to try and find a beau" said Mary looking pointedly at Edith. "Mind you, I expect they're all crammed full of bank clerks, insurance salesmen, commercial travellers and other riff raff". Here Mary shot a meaningful glance at Tom, before turning back to Edith. "Not of course that **you **can afford to be too choosy - when it comes to finding a husband" added Mary cattily.

Edith looked crestfallen, genuinely hurt. Sybil reached across and squeezed her gloved hand comfortingly.

"Personally, I wouldn't be seen dead on a tram" said Mary haughtily.

"There's very little chance of that" said Tom.

"Meaning what, if you please?" asked Mary coolly.

"Well, the tramway company here in Dublin is rather particular about the kind of person to whom it permits its tickets to be sold. If it wasn't, they'd be having all kinds of, what was it you said? Oh yes, riffraff" getting on and off their cars" said Tom straight faced.

Sybil stifled a giggle and Edith, realising that Tom, in making fun of Mary, was coming to her defence, bestowed on him a smile of singular sweetness and her opinion of him soared. No wonder Sybil loves him she thought. However, hoping to avoid any further unpleasantness, hurriedly, Edith asked Mary if she would like another cup of tea.

"I've taken tea" said Mary.

"So, how do you find Dublin?" asked Tom pretending not to notice Mary's contemptuous, continuing disdain.

"Look for it on a map?" suggested Mary airily.

"That's not what I meant" said Tom, deliberately echoing Mary's words from but a little while before. "And well you know it".  
"Do I?" asked Mary still gazing steadfastly out of the window.

"Yes you do. And if you had one ounce of the breeding you think you possess, you'd stop behaving like a spoilt child" said Tom his voice rising.

Sybil and Edith exchanged meaningful glances. Apart from Papa, they had never once heard anyone speak to Mary in so peremptory a fashion. People near to them began to cease talking, to stop what they were saying, to turn in the direction of their table.

"I beg your pardon" said Mary her voice also beginning to rise.

"You heard what I said … **Mary**" said Tom icily. That he, of his own volition, had chosen this very moment to dispense with according their eldest sister her title was not lost on either Edith or Sybil.

"Tom, you promised" began Sybil. She gently reached out a restraining hand.

"I know, love. But this … this nonsense has got to stop, once and for all. And now".

"I won't have anyone make a fool of me" said Mary.

"No need to worry about that" said Tom quietly. "You're doing an admirably good job of it all by yourself".

"Well really. This is quite intolerable". Mary rose haughtily to her feet. "I think I shall do better in the park".

It was then that all four became suddenly and painfully aware that the quiet murmur of conversation in the elegant dining room had ceased. From all corners of the now silent room people were watching them, listening, waiting on their every word, while from outside, there drifted in through the open windows, the unmistakeable foot tapping strains of the Radetzky March.

In a display of perfect good manners, which, given the circumstances, their father and Matthew would have been hard put to emulate, Tom also stood up, earning him a look of admiration and gratitude from both Edith and Sybil.

Mary looked absolutely appalled.

For one awful moment, she thought Branson intended to accompany her over to the park. Then realisation slowly dawned upon her. Ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, Mary inclined her head towards him, acknowledging, despite their recent heated exchange, the respect which Branson had just accorded to her.

"Thank you. But I can find my own way there … and back" she said steadily.

And with that and without so much of a backward glance, ignoring the silent, studied gaze of everyone else who had chosen that very afternoon to partake of tea in the elegant dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary swept imperiously out of the room, bound for St. Stephen's Green.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty Two

A Highly Explosive Declaration Of Intent

As Mary stormed off in high dudgeon and vanished out of sight through the doorway of the dining room and into the grand entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel, Tom sighed heavily and then sank slowly back down onto his chair. Gently, almost reverently, he took hold of Sybil's hand, and smiled hesitantly across at Edith.

Around them, normality gradually resumed. The sustained level of animated babble, chatter, and inconsequential conversation in the dining room returned quickly to its previous degree of intensity, while smartly uniformed waiters continued discretely with their appointed duties, moving effortlessly between the various tables, attending quietly to the needs and the requirements of those seated at them.

"I'm sorry, love" Tom said turning to Sybil. "That was unforgivable of me. I lost my temper. I shouldn't have done so. Not after I promised you I wouldn't do so. But I'm simply not prepared to let Mary carry on speaking to people, to you, to Edith, even to me, the way she thinks she can; all because of some misconceived, ridiculous idea of her own social status and importance. Not any more".

"It's … it's not her fault, Tom. Well, not entirely. Really it isn't" said Edith softly, clasping his wrist with her outstretched hand. "It's the way we were brought up; all of us, even Sybil. We were taught to accept things as they were; not to question whether they were right or wrong; told where everyone and everything fitted into the general scheme of things. It gave us a particular view on life, on people. An inherited view, maybe, but, whether for right or for wrong, a view just the same".

"I admire your loyalty, Edith" said Tom. "Truly, I do. But you're not like that. Not really. And neither is Sybil. Just because someone is born into a life of privilege and wealth doesn't mean they should think they can trample over the dreams of others, treat people with contempt … as if they're not even human; there to serve their every need".

"Well, if that amounts to a compliment and to a vote of confidence in me, then thank you, Tom!" Edith smiled. "After all, I'm not much accustomed to receiving either!" Tom grinned, reached over, and grasped her hand tightly.

"Have more confidence in yourself. But have you never felt Edith, that you wanted to do something more with your life than simply to conform, to have an allotted place in society, to continue to act out but one role throughout the entire length of your whole earthly existence? I know I do", said Tom. "And", he glanced hesitantly across at Sybil, "I know that's how Sybil feels too. That's part of what makes us both the way we are; why we're right for each other".

"But don't you regret that Papa ..." began Edith.

"Of course. After all, it's only natural to have regrets. We all do, don't we love?" Tom smiled shyly at Sybil.

"If you mean by that, do **I** wish that I'd admitted to you, owned it to myself too, how much I loved you somewhat sooner than I did?" Sybil grinned broadly at Tom. "Then yes, of course I do! But if, with all that's happened you had to choose again Tom ..." Her words died away.

"No contest Sybil", said Tom. "It would have to be you; always be you". He turned back to Edith.

"You see, Edith, we love each other, your sister and I, because apart from our own deep feelings for each other, everything else has made it inevitable that we do" said Tom. "Not forgetting of course, that she's the most beautiful girl in the world!"

"Oh Tom, don't be so ridiculous!" laughed Sybil, blushing furiously.

"Aphrodite personified!" chuckled Tom.

"Oh you idiot" laughed Sybil. "Me? A goddess from Antiquity?"

"Well. Why ever not? After all, what about your name?"  
"My name?"

"Wasn't Sybil something or other to do with Ancient Greece?" Tom glanced at Edith.

"Don't look at me. Lord knows" laughed Edith. "But I can see now that the two of you are ideally matched! But although it's taken me somewhat longer than Sybil to realise it, Mary still hasn't come to terms with what's happened. That the war has changed everything … and forever".

"Well, if you can see it, Edith, then so should Mary. After all, she's not stupid; wilfully blind maybe, but not stupid" said Tom earnestly.

"No, she isn't" said Edith. "Normally, I'd be the last one to defend Mary. But seeing the two of you together, so in love, so blissfully happy, so easy in each others' company, probably made her realise, more than ever, what she's lost".

"How so?" asked Sybil.

"Sybil, darling, surely it can't have escaped your notice …"  
"… that she's still in love with Mr. Matthew" finished Tom softly. "There my love, what did I tell you? Remember?" asked Tom.

Sybil nodded, and for one brief moment she found herself back at Downton, outside the well remembered garage, standing in the sunlight, talking to Tom, she in her nurse's uniform, he in his grease stained brown overalls …

Sitting there, listening to Tom and Edith talk so easily, so freely, Sybil sensed that following Mary's abrupt departure, a subtle change had taken place between all of them. If the other two hadn't noticed it, she most certainly had. They were no longer simply three people bound together by shared remembrances and past ties, both paradoxically based on class distinction and separation, arising from, for her at least, an all but vanished way of life, played out in the gilded elegance and surroundings of Downton Abbey. Instead, they were now simply three adults, seated at a table in a hotel dining room here in Dublin; two women and a man, of equal status, equally involved, engaged in conversation about something that mattered intensely to them all.

But, while Sybil agreed wholeheartedly with what both Edith and Tom were saying, no-one she thought, not her parents, not Mary, not Edith, not herself, not even Tom; especially dear, darling Tom, could ever entirely shake themselves free of what once was. For the past follows us all, like an ever present shadow thought Sybil. That premonition of what was to come would come back to haunt her, and far sooner than she could ever have expected.

"As to your parents?" continued Tom, looking intently at Edith, "in my opinion they're just as bad as Mary. Why, ever since Sybil and I announced to you all back in April, in the drawing room at Downton, that we were engaged, that we intended to marry, to come over here to Ireland to live and work, to raise a family, we've faced their implacable hostility. I just can't understand them. I don't care tuppence for what they may think of me.

But to treat their own daughter, the way they've treated my darling girl over these last few months - when she could have done most with their love and support ... Have they any idea what it's been like for her? I mean really? Leaving Downton properly for the very first time, coming over here with me to Ireland, to a new country, a country on the verge of civil war I might add, to a whole new life and so different to the one she's been used to since childhood, meeting my family, lodging with Ma, finding a job? Why, Sybil's got a damned sight more guts than her father - for all he's the earl of Grantham".

"I don't doubt that for a minute" said Edith with sincerity. "After all, and no offence to you Tom, but I know I could never have done what Sybil's chosen to do".

"And now, for them both to refuse to come over to Ireland for our wedding, don't they realise how much they've hurt her? Oh, I know, I'm well aware of the excuses your mother's given in her letters to Sybil, the ones that you've made on behalf of them both, but why they …"

"Tom, my darling, you know very well why" said Sybil softly interposing, taken aback with the depth of her admiration for him, for his fervid, open expression of his feelings towards both her and her parents before Edith.

Tom nodded his head in agreement.

"Of course I do, my love. I may be many things, Sybil, but stupid isn't one of them. The plain and simple truth is that you and I fell in love; your parents don't think I'm good enough for you, and in their eyes, I never will be. What should we have done? Never met? Impossible. Never fallen in love? Before we knew it had happened; it was too late. As for your parents, even now, I'm certain that they'd far rather that you married someone of your own class than were married to someone who loves you as much as I do, as I have done from that very first moment I ever …"

Catching sight of Edith's eyes upon him, for an instant, shyly, Tom broke off what he was saying, blushed furiously from the tip of his chin to the roots of his fair hair. Edith grinned cheerfully at Tom, amused in spite of herself to see him so disconcerted, so unsure of himself, yet subconsciously willing him to continue with his tale of how he first fell in love with her younger sister. Taking courage from the depth and warmth of Edith's smile, Tom smiled shyly back at her, and then resumed what he had been saying.

"Can't **any **of you understand? Can't **they** understand? Can't **you **understand? I love their youngest daughter; your younger sister. I always have. I absolutely adore her. I love her to distraction. I want to spend the rest of my life with her, want to have children with her. There never has been … there never, ever, could be, anybody for me, but Sybil".

Stunned into bemused silence by Tom's heartfelt open re-affirmation of the depth of his love for her before Edith, momentarily Sybil said nothing. After all, what could she say?

For her part, Edith was staring back at Tom in utter amazement. If she had ever once doubted the sincerity of the feelings the young Irishman had for her younger sister, then his earnest steadfast declaration, just made before her, of the intensity of his feelings for Sybil, had completely blown those doubts clean out of the nearest window. In fact, given the depth of the passion of Tom's avowal of his love for Sybil, it was a matter of infinite surprise to Edith that the windows of the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel still remained intact.

"So" said Sybil, a mischievous smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "From that heartfelt declaration, which, if it escaped your notice has been witnessed by no lesser personage than Lady Edith Crawley daughter to the earl and countess of Grantham I might add, am I to take it Mr. Branson that you do still wish to marry me this coming Saturday?"

"What do you think?" asked Tom with a laugh. "Or is it that you just want to have me propose to you all over again? In fact I suppose I might as well do so".

Heedless of the disapproving comments and startled looks from many of the assembled throng in the dining room, Tom slipped off his chair and onto one knee beside her. Reaching forward, gently, almost reverently, he took Sybil's hand in his own, slipped off her glove, and gazed up at her with adoration, his blue eyes sparkling.

"Sybil Crawley, I have loved you for years. Will you do me the singular honour of becoming my wife?"

"Oh, yes. **Yes**!" said Sybil her eyes matching the sparkle in Tom's. "Now you silly idiot, get up from off the floor before I change my mind!" said Sybil laughing, reaching forward and ruffling his hair with her fingers. Chuckling, Tom did as he was told and resumed his seat on his chair, grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.

Watching the two of them, even if part of what she had just witnessed was Tom and Sybil acting the fool, Edith felt a sudden unbidden lump come into her throat, her eyes begin to sting with unwanted tears. No, she would not allow herself to give into her emotions, to let them have free rein before her sister and her fiancé. Nor did she. For once, the cultivated aristocratic discipline of a lifetime also stood Edith in good stead. She blinked back her tears and grinned broadly at them both.

After all, Tom was right.

Why couldn't Papa and Mama see it? Why did Mary persist in opposing their marriage? Why had she herself been such a fool? In fact, why hadn't they all realised it? As she had said, Tom and Sybil were made for each other; so utterly right together. But, Edith's realisation, and Tom and Sybil's blissful reverie, was to be short lived.

Having ordered a fresh pot of tea and more hot water, along with another slice of the hotel's "deliciously yummy" chocolate cake - for Tom - the three of them continued to chat and talk animatedly, while outside, opposite the front of the hotel, on the other side of the road, the military band carried on playing through a delightful repertoire of tunes. Passers-by on the pavement stopped to stand and listen or to politely applaud their approbation, while, thronged with passengers, the trams rattled merrily past and in a cacophony of blaring horns and a fug of petrol fumes, the motors ground and weaved their way along the north side of St. Stephen's Green.

It was Tom who first noticed the subtle change occurring. He stopped what he was saying, looked up, and then glanced out through the window.

"What the …?"

"Tom?" asked Sybil.

"No, listen, both of you …"

Edith and Sybil did as they were bidden, although, for a brief matter of moments, neither of them could comprehend what it was that had occurred. Nothing seemed to have changed, until it became all too obvious, that outside, something had indeed happened. Whatever it was had caused the motors to come to a sudden stand and directly opposite them, obscuring their view across to the park, a passing tram had also now stopped. Those on the upper deck of the tramcar seemed to be craning their necks, to be looking intently at something taking place on the far side of the tram.

At the same time, the melodious strains from the military band ceased in a jumbled wail of dissonant, discordant jarring of notes. Amid screams of rising panic, those on the pavement outside the hotel, as well as those on the top of the tramcar dived for cover as the unmistakable sound of heavy and sustained small arms' fire rent the air. And for the second time that afternoon, all conversation in the beautiful dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel drew suddenly to a close.

People stopped what they were saying, what they were doing, cutlery was poised in mid air, teacups half raised to expectant mouths, many held in elegantly gloved hands, while those present glanced about them, trying to pinpoint where the sounds were coming from. Then, realisation dawned on them, appreciating the noise for what it was, and that it was coming from nearby, across the road, in St. Stephen's Green. Several of the gentlemen in the room got up and made their way over to the windows, stood looking out, trying to see exactly what it was that was happening. That, in fact, was probably the very last thing any of them ever did on this earth.

The transient tableau elsewhere in the room shattered in an instant. People began to scream, to shout. Unnerved by what was suddenly happening round about them, by the unexpected panic displayed by most of the adults in the dining room, young children sat stunned, began to cry, to whimper, or simply burst into tears. Then everyone began rising hurriedly to their feet. In the resultant mêlée, chairs were shoved away,fell backwards, tables were overturned. China, glassware, and cutlery crashed to the floor, food was trampled underfoot. And there began a veritable stampede of frightened, terrified people, of all ages, running, streaming, stampeding towards the doors of the dining room leading into the lobby of the hotel.

Then it happened.

At one and the same time, drowning out the sound of the shooting completely, there came a terrific roar from outside. For a moment the very ground seemed to shake, there was a blast of searing heat, and a huge sheet of orange and yellow flames, followed instantaneously by an enormous plume of thick dirty black smoke pillared, towered upwards into the cloudless sky.

Inside the dining room, the two huge cut glass electroliers began to oscillate heavily back and forth, and large cracks suddenly appeared in the ornate plasterwork of both the ceiling and in the decorative cornice. The two electroliers continued to swing back and forth until their momentum became such that the fixings gave way. With an almighty crash both of them suddenly tore loose from the ceiling and fell to the floor. Those directly in their path never stood a chance.

The dining room's large windows overlooking the road crazed, shattered, imploded, showering those within and nearest to them with deadly, vicious splinters of smashed wood work and lethal flying shards of plate glass, the room itself filling with an impenetrable, dense cloud of acrid, billowing, thick black smoke.

Along with several others, the table and everything on it between the Tom, Sybil, and Edith disappeared from sight; in fact, it simply ceased to exist. And, from round about where they had been sitting but moments before, through the swirling miasma of thick, choking smoke there came heart rending cries for help, mixed with screams from both the injured and the dying.

"Oh my God! No! Tom! Edith!" screamed Sybil. "Tom …"


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty Three

"Willkommen zu Hölle"

Donnelly couldn't understand it.

After all, from what he had gleaned from Frank Brennan, to reach the door to the old culvert beneath the road at the front of the hotel, was very simple. And yet now, down here in the sombre shadows beneath the Shelbourne, Donnelly wasn't so sure. It had certainly sounded very easy, but somehow, he appeared to have lost his bearings. Had Brennan set him up? Donnelly hoped very much not, because, if he had, there would come a reckoning with Frank which he could guarantee Brennan would not much like.

And there was something else down here too; something that Donnelly could not quite comprehend; an overwhelming sense of palpable dread, of almost tangible foreboding, which darkened, deepened, as he moved ever forward beneath the very foundations of the Shelbourne Hotel.

Donnelly had now come to where two passages crossed.

Was it to the left or to the right? All of these bloody passages looked so very much the same. On both sides of him, wooden doors provided access to numerous cellars and storerooms. Some of these were obviously long disused, were now nothing more than noisome dark, door less voids. Of those which retained their doors and were still in use, some bore enamel plaques upon them indicating what they contained within: - china, crockery, glassware, and cutlery. Not surprisingly there were a wide variety of foodstuffs stored down here too - teas and coffees, tinned preserves, spices, various fruits, marmalade, jams, sugar, all manner of vegetables, bottles of beer, of stout, of wine, and of spirits. The contents of other storerooms were rather more mundane and were stocked with everyday articles such as brooms, brushes, dusters, mops, tins of polish, bars of soap, and supplies of lamp oil. The list of the contents of the various storerooms was varied, and seemingly endless.

Donnelly really did seem to have lost all sense of direction.

Somewhere ahead of him, scurrying footfalls sounded on the stone steps of a staircase. The footsteps grew louder, were heading down the passageway towards him. With not a second to spare, Donnelly dived into a deep alcove close by where he stood stock still. In front of him in the dimly lit passage, carrying a heavy earthenware pitcher, a kitchen porter - he looked to be no more than about sixteen years old - scurried past Donnelly's hiding place in the recess.

Even in the poor light, he could see that the young dark haired lad was very good looking, and, despite the reason for Donnelly's own presence in the passages beneath the hotel, here in the most improbable of places and in the most unlikely of situations, Donnelly felt the unmistakable flicker of arousal. Craning his head, he followed the young porter's progress until the lad turned a corner and disappeared out of sight.

Somewhere, apparently seemingly just above Donnelly's head, someone was playing the piano. The faint, tinkling strains of Haydn Wood's "The Roses of Picardy", a melody which Donnelly knew very well indeed from his time in France, drifted slowly down to his ears through the arched brick ceiling from above. From his rendition of the piece, the pianist was evidently very gifted. Despite the inherent incongruousness of the situation, Donnelly found himself humming the refrain:-

"Roses are flowering in Picardy, but there's never a rose like you!

And the roses will die with the summertime, and our roads may be far apart,

But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy!

'tis the rose that I keep in my heart!"

Almost imperceptibly, gradually, the melody faded away, to be replaced by the faint ripple of muted applause. Somewhere a bell rang, a door creaked, a woman laughed, and Donnelly heard the low murmur of voices. A moment or two later and he thought he heard, no, **knew **he had heard, and close at hand too, a single, low, guttural chuckle. That in itself was so unnerving. For, apart from the young kitchen porter, he was certain that there was no-one else about down here, apart from himself. Donnelly was sure he was completely alone; there definitely was no-one else down here. So who was it who owned the laugh he had just heard, what was the joke, and at whose expense had it been made?

Something about that chuckle made him shiver.

It put Donnelly in mind of a curious experience which he had heard related by the sole survivor of a party of British sappers, of something that had befallen him and his mates not long before the war finally ended.

As a result of counter tunnelling operations, the sappers had chanced upon a long abandoned German dugout deep below ground, not far from the ruins of Ypres in Belgium. When the British sappers broke through into the dugout, it became clear that the group of German soldiers they found entombed inside it had all been buried alive, the victims of some past enormous bombardment, which had probably occurred in 1914, soon after the war had begun. Some of the German soldiers, all of them now no more than skeletons, were seemingly in the very positions the men had been in at the time of the explosion which had buried them. Several were sitting upright on a bench; two were lying in what had been their beds, while another was at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps, blown there by the force of the blast.

Leading off from one of the subterranean passageways, which was probably what had put Donnelly in mind of the tale, was a small room. Within, the sappers had found themselves looking upon a scene of horror. Seated round a rickety table, still wearing the rags of their uniforms, were the grinning skeletal corpses of what were once three German soldiers. It had been probably nothing more than the rush of air from the outside permeating into the long sealed dugout, but the surviving sapper told Donnelly that just as they entered the chamber he heard what sounded like a low laugh.

Painted in Black Letter script on a piece of wood nailed to the entrance to the low wooden walled room were the words:-

"Willkommen zu Hölle" - "Welcome to Hell" – as the sapper freely translated for Donnelly.

As things turned out, for the German soldiers, the sentence had proved uncannily prophetic. They would also be the very last words that all but one of the British sappers ever saw. One of them, who had advanced further into the room than the rest, saw, hanging on the wooden wall behind the three corpses, a spiked pikelhaube German helmet. The young sapper reached for it to take it back with him as a souvenir. A veteran of several campaigns, he really should have known better. It was so obviously a booby trap wired to explode the soon as the helmet was lifted from off the wall. The resultant explosion killed all but one of the sappers entombing them in the mud and dirt along with the skeletal remains of their erstwhile German foes.

Donnelly was just about to leave his hiding place in the alcove, when suddenly he froze absolutely rigid.

Something furry and light had just run across his boots. A mouse surely. Perhaps more than one. Oh God, please don't let it be a rat, he prayed. Please God, not a rat. Donnelly shuddered. From his days in the trenches over on the Western Front, many spent standing ankle-deep in mud and filthy water, Donnelly had developed a profound aversion and a horror of rats. He had seen what they did to the corpses of the fallen. With their vicious pointed yellowed teeth, a group of hungry rats could strip a face clean of flesh right down to the bone, reducing it to a bloodied grinning sightless mask in less than an hour. So hopefully it was just a mouse which had scuttled across his boots.

Determinedly, Donnelly resumed his ever purposeful walk along the stone flagged passage. He was certain he was now moving in the right direction, for from up above him there now came clearly to his ears the discrete chink of china and cutlery, the murmur of conversation. He was directly below the dining room overlooking the street opposite St. Stephen's Green so the entrance to the long abandoned culvert should be ... Ah, yes there it was.

Up above him, in the Shelbourne's grand kitchen an otherwise minor hiccup in the day's regimented proceedings had arisen. The earthenware pitcher of cream fetched up from the storerooms below by young Billy O'Loughlin was found to be tainted. Told to be more careful in future, receiving a stinging cuff around the ears from the enraged sous chef, Billy was immediately despatched back down to the bowels of the hotel for a fresh supply. And, although no-one would ever know it, a singular chain of events had now been set in train.

For the seemingly unremarkable occurrence in the kitchen involving the tainted cream was to have serious and unforeseen consequences for some, indeed for many individuals, including not only Jerry Donnelly, but also all three daughters of the earl and countess of Grantham, and a rising young journalist with the Irish Independent - by the name of Tom Branson


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty Four

A Kind Of Sanctuary

When Mary had so hurriedly and so unexpectedly left the other three to their own devices in the dining room, then swept across the magnificent entrance hall, and stormed out through the heavy imposing front doors of the Shelbourne Hotel, hastily opened for her by the liveried doorman, she really had no idea where she was going; what she was going to do.

However, having peremptorily ignored the offer of a cab being hailed for her by the same doorman, once outside on the pavement, in front of the hotel, she paused. What on earth **was** she going to do now? Of course, along with their parents, she and her sisters, all three of them, had visited Ireland several times before this singularly ill-starred occasion; initially as children, then later when they were older, most recently when their Majesties, King George V and Queen Mary, had made a visit here to Dublin. That had been … Good Lord! Back in 1911; before the war. A lifetime ago!

Why, even now, all these years later, if she thought about it, and she hadn't, not in years, not until now, Mary could picture the ecstatic crowds lining the route of the royal procession, could still hear the cheers and shouts of acclamation as the royal party had made its way here to Dublin from Kingstown. Oddly enough, Mary also now recalled something Papa had said at the time to one of his friends that, given the enthusiastic welcome accorded to the king and queen, "Home Rule was a dead duck". Not that Mary had really understood what her father had meant of course.

However, if what Sybil had been saying to them at tea was true, Home Rule, whatever exactly that had been, was clearly now no longer the issue. Of course, if Matthew had been here, doubtless he would have been able to explain to her what it was all about, and no doubt **he** could too.

Then there had been that awful business in 1916, during the war, when the Irish had tried to proclaim a republic.

At the time, Mary had never seen her father so angry, remembered his scathing, almost vitriolic comments at the breakfast table, the acerbic tone of which had been such as to make poor Carson blanch. Indeed, later the very same morning that Papa had read out to both Mary and Edith from the Times what had been taking place here in Dublin during the Easter Rising, he had intended to have Branson drive him into Ripon. Mary smiled to herself; recalled she had asked Papa to seriously consider, if in all the circumstances, that was a very good idea. Papa had agreed, said he didn't want to be responsible for killing his own chauffeur, and promised to defer his planned trip into Ripon until later in the week, by when his temper would hopefully have cooled. Once again, thought Mary, just as I did after the incident at the count, I prevented Papa from venting his anger on Branson.

In fact, come to think of it, the only time Mary had seen her father as angry as he had been on both those occasions had been but a couple of months ago, in the immediate aftermath of Sybil having announced her engagement to Branson. And even then, ironically enough, in saying that she had tried to make Sybil see sense, Mary had done her very best to deflect her father's anger. Mary permitted herself a wry laugh. It was almost as if she was, in some strange kind of way, Branson's guardian angel.

And now, the Irish wanted their independence, they would seemingly settle for nothing less, and this time, again from what Sybil had said at tea, it appeared they would have what they wanted; just as Sybil and Branson intended to have what they wanted too, and get married. Dear Lord, how had it all come down to this?

While Mary's parents had brought her and her sisters over here to Ireland to visit friends, that of course had been to country estates – to the Tremaynes down at Curraghmore – only that particular visit could never now be repeated, not after Branson's fellow pyromaniacs had burnt the place down; to the Russells of Castle Mullen over in County Galway, and to the Careys at Langford House, near Tralee in the far south west.

She didn't know Dublin, had never properly visited the ghastly place until now and that only after agreeing to this visit, made against her better judgement, and which, if she had anything to do with it, would never, ever be repeated. So, quo vadis? To the park across the road, certainly, but beyond that Mary had given the matter no thought whatsoever. All she had wanted to do, almost at any cost, was to get away from ... **them**.

Having threaded her purposeful way, stumbling between the passing motors, coughing at the choking fumes, ignoring the furiously ringing bell of a rapidly approaching tram, moments later, Mary found herself on the opposite side of the road from the Shelbourne Hotel. Thereafter, she entered St. Stephen's Green by way of an imposing stone arch named, had she but known it, for those of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers who had been killed in the Second Boer War. But dead infantrymen were the last thing on Mary's mind as she strode just as purposefully on in to the park, intent on seeking both sanity and sanctuary.

St. Stephen's Green was much larger than she had first thought and was thronged with all kinds of people. Here and there children were playing in the warm sunshine, while along the numerous paths, men and women chatted and strolled at their leisure, or else sat peacefully and unconcerned, taking their ease on the many benches which dotted the park. One thing was common to them all, irrespective of their social status. And that was that they all seemed intent on enjoying the peaceful stillness of the summer's afternoon. But, as Mary marched on like an avenging Fury, attracting many unfavourable comments and drawing in equal measure and to her mind, impertinent stares, she gave no thought to any of them; not even to the heat of the summer afternoon, as she walked briskly ever onwards, intent on putting as much distance as she could between herself and ... **them**.

With absolutely no thought given as to where she was heading, after a while Mary found herself crossing a low stone bridge over the lake which she had glimpsed briefly through the trees from the one of the windows of the hotel dining room. It was certainly much cooler down here by the lake, where the trees and bushes grew thicker and in greater profusion. In her desire to be alone and away from prying eyes, Mary turned quickly off the main path, almost tripping over a tree root in the process. She stumbled, recovered her balance, and after a short while found herself in the centre of a small sunlit glade, thankfully shaded from the summer heat by the dense foliage of the surrounding greenery. There were a couple of wooden benches, both of them thankfully empty, and wearily, Mary sank down on the one furthest away from the direction from which she had just come.

With no-one about to see the impropriety, Mary tugged off her hat and gloves, and tossed them carelessly onto the bench beside her. Then, sitting with her chin resting on her clasped hands, staring vacantly ahead of her, slowly, she began to try and attempt to collect the swirling miasma of her thoughts about ... **them**..

This business with Sybil and Branson was the absolute limit, but was that what was really troubling her? Her earlier thoughts came back to haunt her. If only she and Matthew had managed to sort things out between themselves, then they would have been just like ... **them**.

That was it.

The green eyed little monster had reared its ugly head and refused to go away.

Admit it, why don't you, Mary, to yourself, if to no-one else. You're jealous. Jealous of Sybil's good fortune, in marrying the one man she truly loves to absolute distraction. Has done for ... Now that was something Mary had never really even considered until now, but if she thought about it, she could pinpoint when it was that she had first noticed Branson displaying more than just a passing interest in her youngest sister. And that had been ... after that same, ridiculous incident at the count in Ripon. Good God, surely not? Why, that had been years ago, even before the war. But, on reflection, it was then too, that Sybil herself had spoken out against Papa; had made it clear that if Branson was dismissed, that she would run away from Downton. No-one had taken her seriously of course, and no-one, not even Mary herself, had really given the matter that much thought at the time; certainly not Papa or Mama. But now, looking back ... Hindsight was a wonderful thing, but of no use to man or beast.

And, thought Mary, you're also envious. You are envious of the dogged determination and the steely resolve that your youngest sister has displayed in sticking to her purpose and standing by ... **him**. Had Richard been deemed ... unsuitable ... would I have done the same? No, of course not because ... Well, say it, you silly girl. Say it. "Because, I don't love him" she said out loud. "I never have. I never will. God help me, I love Matthew Crawley. I always have". And of course, had it not been for his title and his wealth - new money as granny had so contemptuously called it - Sir Richard Carlisle would have been considered just as an unsuitable a suitor for her - as Branson was for Sybil.

And so to see Sybil and ... Branson...

No, thought Mary angrily.

For God's sake use it! For once, just use it. Use his Christian name. After all he has one. And, hadn't Sybil taken her to task that very afternoon for not doing so? Very well then, Sybil and ... Tom. To see Sybil and ... Tom. Oddly enough, it really wasn't that difficult to say, just that the combination was so unfamiliar. To see the both of them so deliriously happy, so free in their feelings for one another, so easy in their relationship - the way Sybil had dabbed Tom's mouth and fingers clean after his encounter with the slice of chocolate cake bore witness to that. And, so obviously in ... Use the word, Mary, she said angrily to herself. It's nothing of which to be either afraid of or ashamed. Very well then, to see Sybil and Tom so obviously in ... **love**, it pained her. No, be honest, it hurt. No, that wasn't right either. Wrong tense. It **hurts**. It hurts like ... hell.

That Sybil and Tom, despite - or perhaps, knowing Sybil as I do - even because of their social differences, had managed to find something so singularly rare and precious, and in so an unlikely setting, as the garage at Downton Abbey, was something truly remarkable, at which to wonder.

And what was it that the two of them had found? Something which, thought Mary, she might once have shared with Matthew. Something which many couples aspired to and might even think they had attained, but which few really ever did: and yet it formed the basis of every successful marriage. And Sybil and Tom would have that, of that she was absolutely certain.

What was it that gave her that utter certainty? The simple fact that Sybil and Tom were so completely each others; that they never held anything back; that they were so open and passionate with their feelings for one another, caring nothing for the censure of family or society. Nothing else mattered to them, but the well being of each other.

Why, one only had to see them together to see the truth in that. They absolutely adored each another. When Tom had turned up at the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary didn't fail to notice, and neither, she thought had Edith, that Sybil couldn't take her eyes off him. Nor could Tom take his eyes off Sybil. It was almost as if they felt the other would somehow vanish into vapour if they did. Their open demonstration of their mutual affection for each other, when they had kissed, had piqued Mary. Not for the kiss itself, embarrassing as it was, but because she could never imagine being that way with Richard. In fact, the least thought about ... that side of things ... with him, the better. But **if **she married Richard, it was something she would have to think about, to come to terms with. And yet in acknowledging what constituted the basis for a successful marriage, Mary knew full well that if she then married Sir Richard Carlisle, their relationship was doomed before it had even begun.

Had, she wondered, Sybil and Tom already been intimate? Of course she could never ask Sybil about **that**, at least not now, perhaps not ever, after all it was not the stuff of polite chitchat. But, when they had met her earlier that afternoon, there had definitely been something that was different about Sybil. There was a new radiance about her, something which, thought Mary, had it not been for her own unexpected nocturnal encounter with Mr. Pamuk, she would never ever even have noticed. That Edith had failed to notice the change in Sybil was perhaps hardly surprising, given what Mary assumed to be Edith's lack of knowledge of such matters.

Still deep in thought, it was a t this precise moment, that Mary's train of thought was momentarily interrupted by what sounded like gunfire, coming from somewhere in the park. It definitely sounded like shooting. But surely not? After all, it wasn't the season and besides, this was a municipal park, not a country estate. Well, whatever it was, honestly, thought Mary, since the war all manner of things seemed to be permitted, and for the moment gave the matter no more thought.

Well, she would have to try her very best and make serious amends, make her own peace with Sybil and with Tom. It would not be easy of course, but not for nothing was she the eldest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham. And, the sooner she tried to do so, the better.

Her mind once made up, setting her hat back firmly on her head, Mary resolutely pulled on her gloves, rose from the bench and prepared herself for the fray, feeling much, she thought, as Daniel must have done when he had been about to enter the lions' den. The analogy was not entirely inappropriate, for, whenever Tom either laughed or smiled, which with Sybil by his side he did a very great deal, Mary had not failed to notice his perfect set of white teeth. She could only hope that Tom's bark was worse than his bite. If not it might be that she had to...

At that very moment, the bomb placed in the culvert below the front entrance of the Shelbourne Hotel, exploded.

The resultant explosion and the eddying shock waves threw Mary forcibly to the ground, showering her with a mass of leaves and dirt. For a moment, she just lay there, temporarily stunned, simply unable to comprehend what it was that might have happened. There was a persistent ringing in her ears and she found herself spitting out a mouthful of dirt. Good God, what on earth would granny think of her?

It was just then that Mary remembered something Matthew had once told her. It had been on a sunny afternoon, much like today in fact, which was probably what had brought it to her mind, while she had been pushing him slowly about the grounds at Downton in his wheelchair, before he had recovered the use of his legs. Matthew had been telling her about the sometimes curious, inexplicable effect of shell bursts out in France, how the blast spread outwards from the point of the explosion, like the ripples caused by dropping a large stone into a pool.

But what Matthew had been telling her about that day had, after all, taken place in the midst of a battle. Such things did not happen in the centre of a city. And whilst this was Dublin, and those living here might very well have different ways of doing things to how they were done in London, it was after all still, nonetheless, a city; the second city in fact of the British Empire. Of course, Sybil had said that both she and Edith didn't realise what was happening over here in Ireland. So, could it possibly be that in this too, she had been wrong all along? If so...

Mary spat out yet more dirt from her mouth, and then, ignoring as best she could the continual, near constant ringing in her ears, she slowly picked herself up from off the ground. She began forcefully brushing away the numerous leaves and twigs with which her coat and dress were now liberally splattered. It was at that moment that she happened to glance up and through the gossamer veil of the green canopy of the over arching trees, that she witnessed the aftermath of the explosion; a billowing plume of dirty black smoke which was now pillaring, soaring upwards into the hitherto all but cloudless sky from the vicinity of the Shelbourne Hotel.

Unconsciously, Mary almost echoed the words of Sybil's terrified scream, made at more or less the same split second. Oh, my God! thought Mary. No. Please God. No!

Away across St. Stephen's Green, on the north side of the park, on the other side of the road, within the shattered remnants and wreckage of what, until but a few moments ago, had been the elegant dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel, those who had been lucky enough to survive the tremendous force of the explosion, and had not been injured in the resultant lethal shower of shards of glass and timber, were likewise slowly beginning to pick themselves up from off the debris and dirt strewn floor.

Some, of course, in fact many, had not been that fortunate...


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty Five

Rattus rattus

At the foot of the long flight of stone steps leading down from the hotel kitchens into the main passage below the Shelbourne, young Billy O'Loughlin paused. His ears were still smarting from the drubbing he had received at the hands of the sous chef. Feckin' bastard! It wasn't his fault. Really, it wasn't. How the bleedin' hell could he be expected to know the soddin' cream was off? Ruefully Billy briskly rubbed his sore ears with the palms of his hands, tried to numb the pain, then glanced about him. To be truthful, he really didn't like coming down here; took cold comfort in the fact that he knew he wasn't alone in that. Not many of the hotel staff did, especially at night, and above all to this particular part of the rabbit warren of passages that ran below the hotel. Billy himself wasn't given to having fanciful notions, was known to have sneered openly at those that did, but down here, on his own, well it was rather different. There was undeniably something that wasn't quite right about this part of the vast building. Of course, he'd heard the rumours, after all, who hadn't? At that moment, somewhere close at hand, off to his left, a door creaked.

Momentarily somewhat disconcerted, young Billy stood stock still. He slid his eyes sideways, glanced nervously to his left, in the direction from whence the sound had just come, to catch the surprising sight of a man slipping in through the old door at the very far end of the passage. There were stories about that particular door too, to where it led. Billy shivered. That apart, the man he had just seen passing through the very same door, pulling it close to, shutting it carefully behind him, was undoubtedly Frank Brennan. Now, what on earth was Mr. Brennan doing down here? He belonged upstairs.

That morning, Billy had heard mention among the staff in the hotel kitchen of the fact that once again, and not for the first time, Mr. Brennan had not shown up for work; that this time he really was for it, would undoubtedly lose his job. With the blithe unconcern, but equally the curious interest of a young lad, Billy made his way cautiously down the passage. Reaching the closed door, he stopped and listened. Save for the sound of his own wildly beating heart, the silence was completely unbroken. Something wasn't right, didn't add up. There was not a sound coming from the other side of the door. Young Billy O'Loughlin screwed what remained of his courage to the sticking-place.

Inside the culvert, alert for any unexpected sounds, Donnelly had heard the unmistakeable noise of rapidly approaching footsteps. Cautiously, quietly, he set down the last two of his detonators on a narrow ledge, closed the shutter of the dark lantern, and waited.

"Mr. Brennan, are you in there?" Billy called out nervously. His voice echoed noisily in the empty stillness of the subterranean passage. The silence lengthened, and when Brennan did not immediately answer him, Billy became somewhat nonplussed, increasingly nervous. Now what, he wondered. Cautiously, the young kitchen porter reached for and turned the handle of the old door. The hinges were rusty, squealed their protest. Just as the door began to swing slowly open, Donnelly's clenched right fist shot through the widening gap, hitting the startled boy hard and square in the face, catapulting him backwards into the passage outside, where Billy hit the back of his head against the corner of the brick wall, the impact immediately knocking him unconscious.

A moment or two later and Donnelly had edged himself carefully through the narrow gap between the partially opened door and its frame. Squatting down on his haunches, with undisguised interest, he surveyed the unconscious form of the young lad now stretched out before him on the stone floor of the passage. Donnelly passed the moist tip of his tongue over his dry lips. Any other time ... But **now** was not the time. Grabbing the unconscious form of the kitchen porter under the arms, swiftly Donnelly hauled young Billy into a sitting position and then set about dragging the now unconscious lad's body back down the passage and into the nearest empty storeroom. Having laid Billy out on the dirty floor, with one brief backward glance of infinite regret, Donnelly re-emerged into the dimly lit passage. Here he paused, and looked at his wristwatch.

Good God, was that the time already? The explosives should have been wired and laid by now. He would have to work fast. But working quickly with any kind of explosives, especially when they are of suspect quality, let alone already deteriorating, is never to be recommended – as Donnelly should have realised.

And equally, detonators whether or not they are fused, are much more sensitive to handle than gelignite, particularly at the tip which contains the ultra sensitive base charge. Those with which he was working were aluminium, with the fuses already attached, and when lit had a burning speed of ninety seconds a yard, and like any detonator needed to be handled with extreme care.

The incident involving the young kitchen porter had made Donnelly more than unusually nervous about discovery. Sooner or later, and probably sooner rather than later, someone would come down to find out what had become of the lad. Back in the culvert, hurriedly, Donnelly set about finishing his work. His allotted task was only to provide a diversion so as to facilitate the attack planned on the poless. Therefore, he had no need to use all the explosives in his pack which, given what he had now found to be the state of some of the sticks of gelignite, was just as well. Christ Almighty! Why, if this whole lot went off down here in this confined space, he'd damned well blow himself, the Shelbourne, and everyone else in the vicinity to kingdom come!

Above his head, seemingly very close at hand, while Donnelly continued methodically with his task of impending destruction, he could hear the constant murmur of voices, no doubt belonging to those pedestrians who were walking, strolling at their leisure, along the pavement, blissfully unaware of what was now taking place directly but a short distance beneath them.

Strange to relate, given the fact that what Donnelly was now doing was very well likely, if not inevitably, going to rob some of the unseen owners of those self same voices of their very lives, he found the sound of his fellow human beings to be somehow curiously re-assuring. For most of the time, whether they were male, female, or even those of children, the voices were but faint and indistinct. However, for one brief instant, just as those owning them passed directly over Donnelly's hiding place in the culvert beneath their feet, the voices became clear and distinct, so much so that he could pick out individual words, hear brief snatches of conversation. Then, just as soon as they had become audible, the voices dwindled, faded, rapidly disappeared completely out of the range of Donnelly's hearing, as their owners passed off down the street. And mixed in with the sound of human voices, to his ears there came the constant noise of footsteps, the sound of horses' hooves, the incessant rumble of motor traffic in the street, along with the ringing of bells and the grinding of wheels against steel rails, as yet another tram passed along the road in front of the Shelbourne Hotel.

The culvert itself was arched, narrow, damp, and noisome. Working by the light of a dark lantern was not easy, but it lessened the chance of discovery. A short distance from where Donnelly was working, the culvert had long since collapsed, was now no longer passable; at least by man. Beneath the road, just at the point where the leaking foul sewer of the Shelbourne Hotel crossed through the old culvert, near to where Donnelly was now close to completing his task, the large black rat plopped softly down onto the loose mound of damp, freshly fallen earth. The rat sniffed the foetid air, and then glanced about him. At the far end of the dirt strewn, filthy passageway his pair of bright, lively eyes made out the faintest glimmer of light. On impulse, in the cloying darkness, he scuttled off down the culvert to investigate.

In the dim brightness cast by the dark lantern, at the very same moment that Donnelly reached for the last of the detonators, the large black rat emerged on to the narrow stone ledge. Donnelly saw the rat and froze rigid. Had there been anyone about to have heard him, his terrified yell would have been all too audible. As the detonator fell from Donnelly's momentarily numbed fingers, startled by the yell, the black rat turned tail and fled.

In the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel, watched by Edith, Sybil passed Tom his second piece of chocolate cake.

"Now do try and eat this without getting yourself into the same mess as you did last time!" laughed Sybil.

"I'll do my best". Tom chuckled. He winked merrily at Edith, who grinned back at him, joining happily in their carefree laughter.

Just beyond the front of the hotel, down below the surface of the road, behind the frightened scurrying rat, Donnelly's dropped detonator hit the stone floor of the culvert. There was a single spark, a flash of intense brilliance, followed but a moment later by a blinding, fearful roar, as in a chain reaction, the same flash set off all of Donnelly's explosives. The resulting explosion blew him to pieces, and in a clamorous, deafening, thunderous roar, tore through the stone arched roof of the culvert, through the gravel surface of the road directly above, a matter of yards from the plate glass windows of the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty Six

Aftermath

While the shooting, if indeed that was what it had been, had now thankfully ceased, nothing could have prepared Mary for the appalling sight which greeted her eyes when she walked briskly out from St. Stephen's Green bound for the Shelbourne Hotel. What she then saw in front of her would stay with her for the rest of her life. Later, when she could bring herself to speak of what she had witnessed that afternoon to both her father and mother back in England, Mary would liken the scene now before her as an appalling, dreadful, horrifying image culled in some awful way from Dante's Inferno and, by some equally unfathomable means, brought hideously, and paradoxically, to life on a busy street here in the heart of Dublin.

By the park railings she saw a man crouched down against the low wall with his head in his hands, heard him telling a blood spattered soldier kneeling beside him that his wife had been killed. Close by stood a young boy tightly clutching a small Jack Russell. To Mary, the lad looked to be about eleven years old; he was incredibly pale, his hair burnt and singed, staring, seemingly unseeing, with huge frightened eyes. That particular image would haunt her forever. Seeing the suffering etched in the boy's face, Mary felt a sudden rush of sympathy; did something she had never done before in her life. Heedless of all propriety, of any concern for her clothes, she knelt down on the dirt strewn pavement, reached forward, and drew the young boy, still tightly clutching his dog, into her arms, holding him close, burying his face against her shoulder, whispering what she hoped were words of comfort.

"What's your name?" she asked of him gently.

"T … T … Tommy" sobbed the little boy brokenly. Mary felt her heart lurch. If it were possible, she held the boy tighter, tried unsuccessfully to force back a sudden surge of emotion, felt unbidden tears begin to fall. Well, let them come.

The pavement on which Mary herself was kneeling was filthy, littered with debris and dirt, with earth and stones, with shards of glass and timber, with … Oh God! One more look at something like that and she knew she would vomit up the contents of her stomach. Mary turned her head away, managed to stifle the urge to retch.

In front of the two of them, on the road, all the traffic, the motors, the trams, and the horse drawn vehicles had come to a complete stand. In the shafts of a brewer's dray, a bay horse whinnied, tossed its head and stamped its hooves. Bleeding profusely from a head wound, the driver of the dray lay slumped across his seat, the reins still gripped tightly in his hands.

Mixed with a fug of choking petrol fumes from the motors, smoke was still rising from a large crater in the middle of the road; immediately beyond it stood the blackened, burnt-out, mangled remains of a tram, its windows completely shattered, its paintwork blistered and scorched. Next to the wrecked tram, there were people lying in the street, both civilians - men, women, and children - and soldiers too, some with limbs missing, many crying for help; along with the stench of burned flesh, there was blood everywhere.

The force of the explosion - whatever it was that had caused it - had obviously ruptured a water main. A tide of water was now gushing, pouring, sweeping down the street, streaming over the bodies of the injured, the dying, and dead, coursing among the litter of hastily discarded musical instruments which, supposed Mary, must have belonged to the military bandsmen.

An increasingly thick shroud of smoke, mixed with spray from the broken water main, now overhung the whole ghastly scene, and through the drifting haze and gathering murk, here and there, Mary saw people moving slowly about as if in a dream, many of them bloodied, all disheveled, their clothes torn, calling out, evidently searching for friends and relatives.

It was then that Mary made the mistake of glancing over beyond the wrecked tram; then immediately wished she hadn't done so. Across the street, on the far side of the road, a pall of dirty black smoke was pouring from the broken ground floor windows of the shattered front of the Shelbourne Hotel. Horrified by the appalling carnage, Mary remained on her knees, clasping the young boy tightly to her, completely unmoving, unsure of what she should do. Never had she felt so alone, so helpless.

As Mary knelt there on the pavement, both dazed and shocked, still unable to comprehend either the scene before her or what had caused it, with mounting anxiety and increasing concern, she watched, as through the drifting, eddying smoke haze there emerged yet more people. Those uninjured by whatever it was that had happened, along with several bloodstained walking wounded; men, women and children, who coughing, crying, retching, and stumbling, all were quickly herded, and, she observed, none too gently, away from the once imposing frontage of the Shelbourne by the dark blue uniformed members of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. But of Edith, Sybil, and Tom, she saw no sign; none whatsoever.

Khaki clad soldiers now began to appear on the scene too, in ever increasing numbers, who under the barked commands of their officers, commenced throwing up a tight cordon around the hotel. Brooking no nonsense whatsoever, with their rifles to the fore, the soldiers firmly pushed back the ever growing, increasingly restless, restive crowd of bystanders who had come to look, to watch, and to gawp at what was now unfolding; to speculate on what had happened, and on the likely cause. And that was how Mary came to hear, for the very first time, the word "Shinners"; to learn that that this appalling incident was no terrible accident, but that in all likelihood, it had been caused by a bomb. But surely not? For, thought Mary, however dearly held, nothing, nothing on this earth, nothing at all, no belief, no cause, no struggle, could ever justify doing this, inflicting such appalling suffering on innocent people.

Amid a cacophony of blaring horns, threading their way through the still stationary traffic, motor ambulances now began to arrive, along with doctors and nurses, and yet more soldiers, more police officers. A few moments later, Mary saw two men, their faces cut and bleeding, their clothes dishevelled, their hands handcuffed behind them, being dragged away by the police. Then, to her horror, through the front entrance of the hotel, Mary saw the first of several blanket covered stretchers being brought out - she could guess what the blankets concealed - and which were placed in one of the several waiting motor ambulances. She felt sick to the very pit of her stomach, utterly bereft and alone.

Thereafter, her repeated entreaties made to several passing soldiers, for assistance, to be permitted to pass through the army cordon, to find out what had become of Edith, of Sybil, and of Tom proved singularly fruitless.

After the latest curt refusal, wearily and fearing the worst, Mary hugged Tommy to her again. How could this be happening? To her? To whom could she now turn for help? Save for her two sisters and Tom, she knew no-one here in Dublin. Why, at this very minute, the three of them might be… Oh, God, no. Please, please, let them be safe and unharmed … **all **of them.

But then, after what seemed an interminable age, Mary had an incredible stroke of good fortune. The presence of the beautiful, dark haired, elegantly dressed lady, admittedly now somewhat disheveled in her appearance, and in some obvious distress, cradling a sobbing young boy in her arms, kneeling close to a lamppost, opposite the bomb damaged façade of the Shelbourne Hotel, had not gone unnoticed. On the other side of the street, the army officer stopped what he was doing and walked briskly over to where Mary was kneeling.

"Excuse me, madam? May I be of any assistance?" He looked down at her unsuspecting; but as she raised her head, the dark eyes were as he remembered them, quicksilver flashes of light, shadowed by long charcoal lashes; reminding him instantly of a similar scene, of a similar encounter, but a matter of days ago, on the road from Howth.

"Lady Mary Crawley?" With his open recognition of her, there came too late to Captain Miles Stathum the reluctant realisation that it was now impossible to say that he was mistaken, that to withdraw would be disrespectful, would only make what was an extremely awkward encounter even more so.

At the sound of the man's voice, hearing him so unexpectedly speak her name, her eyes glistening, shimmering, Mary looked up, slowly raised her smudged, tear-stained face, to find looking down upon her a dark haired, immaculately turned-out British army officer. From the three stars on his epaulettes, she recognised that he was a captain, the very same rank as dear, darling Matthew. The officer smiled, and then saluted. His voice had sounded somehow familiar, but for the present, for the life of her, Mary could not recall where she had heard it, or if indeed she had indeed done so.

She smiled a wan smile.

"Sir, you have the advantage of me. But, yes, yes, I am indeed Lady Mary Crawley". As she spoke, Tommy, who still had his arms clasped tightly around Mary's neck, hugged her even tighter. He had no intention of releasing his grip on "the beautiful lady".

For his part, Stathum thought Lady Mary Crawley to be one of those few women gifted with the uncanny ability, even in distress, to look as lovely as ever; in fact even more so. Somehow, her déshabillé, even her tears, did nothing whatsoever to mar her ravishing beauty, her innate elegance, or her natural poise.

"Here, let me help you". Stathum smiled a singular smile of reassurance. He bent down, held out his hand, and slowly helped Mary, somewhat awkwardly to her feet, while she continued to clasp hold of both Tommy and his dog.

Realising she still did not yet recognise him, the officer smiled again.

"Captain Miles Stathum, at your service. I thought it was you, Lady Mary". The officer paused, looked about him with evident grim distaste at the scene now surrounding the both of them. "Although, the last time I had the privilege of meeting and speaking with you it was in somewhat… different circumstances. We met at your aunt's home, Lady Rosamund Painswick, at your youngest sister's eighteenth birthday party, before the war. If your parents … either of your sisters, Lady Edith or Lady Sybil, is here with you, I'm certain they will vouch for me. In fact, I had the great pleasure of meeting with Lady Sybil and… er… her fiancé, a couple of days ago, here … in… Dublin".

Stathum forbore to explain the exact circumstances under which he and Lady Sybil had met; now, he surmised, was neither the time, nor the place.

"I trust both your parents are well? I'm sure they are very pleased to have their home back. Lady Sybil told me a convalescent hospital was established there, during the war?" he asked politely.  
Mary nodded her tacit acquiescence.

"I have no doubt of that at all, Captain Stathum. And, while I assure you that in normal circumstances, I would be only more than happy to reminisce with you about our meeting, about my parents, about Downton, I do not wish to seem at all discourteous, but, I urgently have need of your help".

Stathum likewise nodded.

"Well, this rank ought to be good enough for that. How may I be of assistance to you, Lady Mary?" he asked coolly.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty Seven

A Reunion

It had never been the intention of those who had sanctioned the planting of the bomb which had exploded with such devastating effect beneath the road in front of the Shelbourne Hotel to cause so much carnage and mayhem; those within the hotel had not, in fact, ever been its intended target. It had been aimed and even then merely as a diversion, at members of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, who patrolled and policed the city.

Before the war, its officers and constables had contrived to make themselves very unpopular with Dubliners as a result of their heavy handed tactics in the Dublin Lock-Out, while its plainclothes political "G" Division was responsible for trying to gain information, by whatever means they deemed necessary, on those seeking independence for Ireland, including infiltrating the Irish Volunteer Force now the Irish Republican Army.

But whoever it was who had been the intended target of the bombing was immaterial and of small consolation to those caught up in the full force of the blast and its horrific aftermath. Of course, it went without saying that if Jerry Donnelly had never planted the bomb in the first place then none of what ensued would ever have happened. Had Donnelly even exercised but a slighter degree of care than he had, then many more lives would have been spared, including possibly even his own.

Having set Tommy down gently on his feet, with the young boy still tightly clasping her firmly by the hand, continuing to hold his little dog close in his arms, Mary, with her heart pounding, slowly they all set off, both she and Tommy now escorted protectively and solicitously by Captain Miles Stathum, picking their way cautiously across the debris strewn street, over towards the bomb damaged façade of the Shelborne Hotel. Reaching the army cordon, thanks to the presence of Captain Stathum, Mary and young Tommy were let through without any further hindrance.

At long last, the smoke from the explosion was now slowly beginning to dissipate, but given the stark horror of what was now revealed, Mary grimly wondered if that was in fact a blessing or a curse. Matthew had told her but little of the horrors he had seen over in France, in fact, he flatly refused to discuss it, but the scene before her, must thought Mary, resemble the aftermath of a battle. The smell was indescribable; there was blood … and worse … everywhere. Good God, how could Matthew, indeed how could any of them, have endured seeing sights like this, day in, day out, for four, long years?

Glancing down at the young boy, Miles observed wryly that Tommy continued to grasp Mary tightly by the hand. He smiled.

"If I may say so, Lady Mary, he seems quite taken with you". Miles had offered to hold Tommy's hand when they set off, but the young boy would have none of it, clung instead to Mary, determinedly resolute.

Mary permitted herself a thin smile.

"It's not that at all Captain Stathum. As it so happens, you see young Tommy here and I … well, when we met, we struck a bargain. I promised that I would help him find his mother, while he in turn promised me that he would help me find my sisters and … Mr. Branson; so I suspect he's not likely to let go of me until we do". Mary glanced about her, and then sadly shook her head. Miles looked at her quizzically. Normally Mary would not have bothered to have vouchsafed any further explanation, but now she relented, in fact, felt compelled to do so.

"When we were children, my father, Lord Grantham, always cautioned against my sisters and I making any rash promises, those which we were unlikely to be able to keep. Now seeing all of this …" Mary waved her free hand demonstratively, "well perhaps I shouldn't have promised Tommy that …"

The traffic was still at a stand, while a torrent of water from the shattered water main continued to cascade unchecked down the surface of the road. On top of the wrecked tram, soldiers were engaged in making preparations to cover over what remained of the open upper deck with a large tarpaulin; while below them in the street bloodied, mutilated bodies still lay on the ground. Here and there doctors and nurses were moving slowly and methodically among the scene of devastation, while lying on the opposite pavement, close to the entrance of the Shelbourne Hotel, and awaiting loading into another ambulance were yet further laden, blanket covered stretchers.

They had just reached the far pavement when a scream, then a woman's voice rent the air.

"Tommy! Darlin'!"

"Ma!"

At the same moment, Mary felt Tommy let go of her hand, saw him run at speed, still clasping his little dog, straight into the outstretched embrace of a woman kneeling on the pavement with open arms. Heedless of her appearance, hatless, her hair awry, her clothes covered in dust, her radiant face a picture of both joy and relief, the woman smothered the young boy with kisses. Then Tommy whispered something in his mother's ear. At whatever it was he had said, the woman glanced over towards where Mary accompanied by Miles stood impassively, watching, neither of them wishing to intrude on the happy reunion of a mother and her son.

Seeing Mary's eyes still upon them, slowly the woman rose to her feet and with Tommy by her side, still clutching his dog, she walked quickly and purposefully over to where Mary stood; then heedless of all propriety, reached forward, and embraced the younger woman warmly as if they were old friends of equal status and of long standing.

"May God bless you and keep you in the palm of his hand, miss".

Mary was truly disconcerted, and for a moment, Miles saw her obvious consternation clearly etched in her face. A faint smile flickered about the corners of his mouth. Never for one moment had he ever expected to see the imperious Lady Mary Crawley so disconcerted, so thoroughly flustered. Still the social proprieties must be observed. Miles was about to intervene, when instinctively the older woman released her hold of Mary. Thereafter, formality reasserted itself, as Mary reached forward and grasped the woman's hand, thus responding to her greeting, but at the same time keeping her at arm's length.

"Lady Mary Crawley. I'm so very pleased to make your acquaintance" said Mary politely, and without the slightest trace of emotion.

The woman seemed to sense that she had overstepped the bounds of propriety.

"And there's me forgetting, my manners ma'am. Brigid McCarthy, ma'am. My Tommy here, he's my eldest he's been telling me how you looked out for him. Thank you ma'am, thank you so much. Young Tommy and I will never forget what you did for him. Never!"

Mary coloured, momentarily somewhat embarrassed by the woman's open effusiveness.

"Oh, please, think nothing of it, Mrs. McCarthy. I'm just glad that the both of you all right, that you've found each other again". After all, what else could she say? A lifetime spent making polite conversation in drawing rooms and at dinner tables did not really prepare one for situations such as this.

"Do you live here, in Dublin?" asked Mary airily and for want of something else to say.

"No ma'am. We're up here for a few days. We come from the south, from down near Cork, We're staying with my sister in Rathmines".

"Then perhaps Captain Stathum could …" Mary looked questioningly at Miles.

"Oh, no ma'am. Thank you all the same, but there's no need, really. We can find our own way there, can't we son?" asked Mrs. McCarthy.

"To be sure" replied young Tommy happily.

"And you come from near Cork?" asked Mary disinterestedly. Mrs. McCarthy nodded vigorously.

"That's right ma'am. My husband's a tenant farmer down there … on the Skerries estate. Perhaps you know of it ma'am?"

Mary shook her head.

"No, I don't think I do" she replied. Mary was beginning to rather lose interest in this particular conversation. After all, glad as she was to see young Tommy reunited with his mother, Mary had no interest in this woman or in the Skerries estate. It was far more important to her that she now found out what had become of Edith, of Sybil, and of Tom.

Almost sensing Mary's own thoughts Mrs. McCarthy nodded her head slowly.

"I do hope you find both your sisters safe and well ma'am".

Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"Thank you so much for your concern, Mrs. McCarthy. I hope so too". Mary then turned abruptly back to Miles.

"Captain Stathum, I wonder, would you be so good as to please escort Mrs. McCarthy and Tommy back through the army cordon and see them on their way? From here, I can, I assure you manage perfectly well on my own".

"Well, if you're absolutely certain Lady Mary…"  
"Yes, I am; quite certain, although I trust we will have the pleasure of meeting again, Captain Stathum, and, I hope, in more propitious circumstances than these. And thank you".

At that, Miles came smartly to attention and saluted.

"Well, goodbye Tommy" said Mary. She was on the very point of holding out her hand to the young boy, but then instead, to both her and Mrs. McCarthy's infinite surprise, Mary suddenly found herself kneeling down once more on the filthy pavement, hugging Tommy to her in one final, tight embrace.

Slowly, Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter to the earl and countess of Grantham, rose to her feet, turned away from them all. Then, without so much as a backward glance, and, given the circumstances, with as much hauteur as she could possibly muster, walked through the shattered entrance doors, and into the wrecked lobby of the Shelbourne Hotel.


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty Eight

Of Bathrooms And Dressing Gowns

Inside the wrecked dining room of the hotel, in an all enveloping choking, cloying darkness, coughing and retching from the effects of both dust and smoke, Tom staggered unsteadily to his feet. His blond hair was caked with dirt, his face streaked with blood from a jagged cut to his forehead, his grey suit, the better one of the only two that he owned, now filthy, ripped, and torn. Fitfully at first, then ever increasing in their insistent volubility, there came unbidden to his ears, a discordant medley of sounds from outside; barked orders and harsh shouts, the pounding of heavy booted feet, the constant blaring of motor horns, and above all, and for the present at least, seemingly unheeded, heart rending screams and pitiful cries for help, drifted in to him through the shattered windows of the hotel dining room.

"Sybil!" croaked Tom. There was no response. He coughed harshly, wiped his lips several times with the back of his hand. "Sybil!" yelled Tom with increasing desperation. Casting frantically about him in the darkness, he sensed a sudden movement on the debris strewn floor beneath what must have been the top of their table. Grasping hold of its rounded edge, he pulled away the table top. Reaching down, he found his hands full of the folds of some heavy material. To begin with, Tom couldn't work out what it was. Then reality dawned; the heavy curtains from the window. Feverishly, he tore aside what remained of them, half fearful of what he might find beneath. A moment later, and he knew.

"T.. Tom? Is that you?" coughed Sybil. She struggled to her knees, retched again. Like Tom, Sybil was bruised, battered, and filthy.

"Oh, my darling" cried Tom. Amid the rubble, he knelt down, gathering her tightly to him in his arms, holding her close, smothering her dirt streaked face with kisses. Cupping his well-loved face with her hands, Sybil returned his kisses with an equal passion. Then she saw his forehead and gasped.

"Oh God, Tom, you're bleeding!" cried Sybil. She fumbled in her pockets, desperately trying to find her handkerchief.

"Don't worry love. It's nothing" said Tom dismissively. "What about Edith?"

"Sybil? Is that you?" called a faint voice from close at hand in the shrouded darkness.

"Edith! Oh, thank Heaven! Yes, I'm here!" cried Sybil. Reaching forward with both hands, she grasped hold of her sister, helped Edith to sit up, and then rest her back against the nearby wall. Like Sybil, her hair matted with dirt, Edith was covered from head to toe in dust from the aftermath of the explosion and with detritus from off their table.

"Where … where's Tom?" asked Edith, with heartfelt concern, while wiping away the dust from around her red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm here, Edith" Tom knelt beside her. "Are you all right?"

"Tom! Yes, I think so. Oh, you're hurt!" Then Edith did something which, before today, she would have never done. She reached up and gently caressed Tom's face. Her concern for him was heartfelt, genuinely touching. Tom smiled, covered her hand with his own.

"It's nothing, Edith. Really it isn't. Don't worry, please. Not on my account".

"Well if you say so, Tom. But what … what on earth happened?" Slowly, with her eyes becoming accustomed to the all pervading gloom, Edith began to look about her, seemingly unable to comprehend the scene before her. Amidst the debris on the floor, lying close by among a litter of smashed china and glass, she made out the pitiful sight of a child's torn teddy bear.

"God knows. I suppose it must have been some kind of explosion" said Tom. He coughed harshly, spat out a mouthful of dirt, and then wiped his lips again with the back of his hand.

Later, they would learn that it had been the presence of the tram in the street immediately outside the front of the hotel which had served to shield all three of them from the worst effects of the explosion; so much so, that unlike its counterparts, the window next to where they had all been sitting had merely crazed, not shattered. Nevertheless, the terrific force of the blast had torn down the deep pelmet and the thick heavy curtains which once framed it, enveloping the three of them in the entangling folds, thus saving them from any serious injury.

Others had not been so fortunate.

From elsewhere in the darkened, wrecked room, and but dimly glimpsed, there came cries and screams for help. Gently, Tom helped first Sybil, and then Edith, to their feet. As Tom helped Edith up, she felt her shoes suddenly slip in something wet and sticky. Instinctively, she looked down and through the murk glimpsed what she would rather not have seen. Glancing down and seeing _it _for what it was, Tom grabbed at a nearby tablecloth, and in one deft move, pulled it off the table in a cascade of falling china and cutlery; flung it down on the floor, covering the sickening sight, hiding it as best he could from Edith's horrified gaze.

"Don't look, Edith" said Tom curtly. Then, feeling her weaken suddenly against him, said less peremptorily. "Here, Edith, lean on me". Edith did as she was bidden, sank wearily against the reassuring presence of Tom's warm body, and thankfully felt the comforting presence of his strong arm tighten around her slender form. Instinctively, heedless for her own safety, but ultimately to no purpose whatsoever, her hands fumbling pathetically with the thick buttons of her once grey coat, Sybil made to kneel down, to try and help. Realising what it was she intended doing, none too gently, Tom grabbed hold of Sybil's arm.

"Don't love" he said. "There's no need. He's past caring".

Sybil nodded mutely; let herself be led gently away.

With his strong arms clasped tightly around them both, slipping, stumbling, but with infinite care, Tom helped guide all three of them across the debris strewn floor of the dining room, towards the doorway which led out into the entrance hall of the hotel.

In the lobby they were met by a veritable sea of people; men, women, and children, bloodied, dazed, shocked, and traumatised, who like themselves had, nevertheless, mostly managed to escape serious injury. Some were frantically calling out, looking for relatives, others were wandering aimlessly about, while yet others sat on the floor, or huddled in corners, simply too stunned to speak. Among them mingled shaken and equally stunned members of the Shelbourne's staff, along with increasing numbers of men in khaki and blue - British soldiers and uniformed members of the Dublin Metropolitan Police - and doctors and nurses both from the nearby Royal College of Surgeons on the west side of St. Stephen's Green and from St. Vincent's Hospital situated close by.

It was as they made their faltering way across the wrecked entrance lobby of the hotel that now for the first time, and had he but known it, like Mary but a short while earlier, that Tom now also overheard people saying that the explosion had been caused, not by a broken gas pipe, but by a bomb.

Of course, Tom utterly abhorred violence of any kind. Yet over the past few months, whenever another awful incident in Ireland had been gleefully reported in lurid detail in the British press, Sybil had taken him to task, not once but several times, for the comment he had made to her in the garage at Downton that sometimes terrible sacrifices had to be made for a future worth having.

Following their arrival here in Ireland, Sybil had done the same again, when the Irish newspapers had reported the same kind of incidents. Tom had wearily pointed out several times since, as Sybil herself knew well enough if she stopped to reflect upon the matter, that at the time he had been speaking of something else entirely; in fact of something far more personal to them both, than Ireland's struggle for independence.

Well, if indeed it now proved to be the case, that this whole ghastly affair was the result of a bomb, it proved, thought Tom, that nothing ever excused or justified wilful murder; that was why he had been so appalled at the Bolsheviks' cold-blooded execution of the late Tsar, his wife, and their five defenceless children. That had been wilful, bloody murder, and so too was this. How anybody could do this, to innocent people, he had no idea. Whoever had committed this appalling act was contemptible; was truly beyond the pale. Odd, but he had never much liked that phrase - referring as it did originally to that part of Ireland, which had been under the direct control of the English government during the Middle Ages and described as "the Pale". Anything beyond it was, therefore said to be "beyond the Pale". Now, the phrase seemed somehow singularly appropriate - to describe the reprehensible nature of the individual or individuals responsible for the planting of the bomb, as well as the aftermath of what had happened here today in Dublin.

At that, Tom glanced about him, like Edith earlier, unable to begin to comprehend what it was that he was seeing. Scattered debris, much of it shattered glass, littered the once gleaming, now sadly blood stained, marble floor of the hotel lobby. British soldiers and constables of the Dublin Metropolitan Police were slowly bringing order out of chaos, and were finally beginning to clear the entrance hall of the last of those who had been fortunate enough to escape the explosion uninjured. Of the remainder of those from the hotel's dining room who had survived the blast, albeit injured to varying degrees, some had already been removed to hospital. Others were still being tended to here in the hotel, some lying on the floor of the lobby, the more fortunate having been placed on stretchers, before all of them were, eventually, taken away by ambulance.

Thereafter, declining several offers of assistance from members of the hotel's staff, telling them that, in the circumstances, they had more important things to attend to, leaving the flood of frightened, huddled, and shocked humanity well behind them, with boundless care and tenderness, Tom saw both Sybil and Edith up to the suite which she and Mary had taken on the second floor of the hotel.

Once they were all ensconced in the palatial surroundings of Mary and Edith's suite, putting her medical training as a nurse to good effect, Sybil spent some time in completely satisfying herself that all three of them had sustained nothing more than a few minor abrasions, cuts, and bruises, which given what might have been, was nothing short of miraculous. Thereafter, Sybil and Edith began the slow process of making themselves presentable, but not before Sybil had satisfied herself, while Edith was occupied in the bathroom, with much further gentle feeling and probing searching of Tom's body, that apart from the cut to his forehead, he was, indeed, unharmed.

For her complete examination of him, Sybil made Tom sit down on one of the chairs over by the sitting room window where the light was better. He took it all in good part, wryly amused by her continuing ministrations. Indeed, her solicitousness for his physical well being reminded Tom instantly of Sybil's equal concern for him on the train in the aftermath of the failed bombing of the railway bridge just north of Booterstown. And, were it possible, he loved her all the more for it. But this time, given the circumstances in which they both found themselves, and the presence of Edith in the adjoining bathroom, he forwent making light of the situation, and refrained from suggesting to Sybil that she might want him to undress.

Then despite Tom's repeated protestations, Sybil gently bathed, washed, and bandaged the cut on his forehead, although Tom told her not to fuss, insisting that it was little more than a deep scratch, which in any case had now all but stopped bleeding. Eventually, when Sybil pronounced herself thoroughly contented that Tom had sustained no major injuries, and that the other flecks of blood on his face, and the splashes on his clothes, belonged to someone else entirely, she finally allowed him to stand up.

For her part, Edith telephoned down to the front desk to ascertain if by any chance the hotel had in its possession, or could find from somewhere, at least just on temporary loan, a fresh suit for Tom, while his own clothes were taken away and cleaned.

In due course, there appeared at the door of their suite, a smart young bell-boy, carrying over his arm a couple of gentlemen's suits, one brown, and one dark blue. The bell-boy respectfully conveyed the manager's compliments and said that at different times the two suits had, and for whatever reasons, been left behind by previous male guests; adding that the manager sincerely hoped that one of the two suits would be suitable for Mr. Branson's immediate requirements. Regrettably, given the present circumstances, it was the best that the hotel could do to accommodate Lady Edith Crawley's request and the manager craved their understanding.

Having tipped the bell-boy, and having been handed the two suits by Sybil, Tom disappeared off into the vacant bathroom; first to take a much needed bath, and then to see if either of the suits would suffice. While en route to the bathroom, grinning broadly Tom stopped and whispered discretely to Sybil that if neither of them fitted, then he might just have to sit around in his underwear while his own clothes were cleaned; would she mind if he did? At that Sybil flushed scarlet, then with a sly grin retorted smartly to Tom, and in equally hushed tones, that she didn't mind at all, if indeed that should turn out to be the case. However, to avoid shocking Edith, Sybil would see to it that Tom was lent one of Mary's exquisite floral silk dressing gowns. At that, Tom gulped, said he would settle for an ill-fitting suit instead.

A comparatively short while later, Tom re-emerged from Edith's bathroom, clean, fresh faced, looking considerably better, and, whispered Edith to Sybil, extremely dapper, in a somewhat creased dark blue suit, which, if not a perfect fit, was, said Tom, infinitely preferable to the proffered alternative of wearing one of Lady Mary's silk dressing gowns. At that Edith smiled broadly, raised her eyebrows expressively, looked quizzically at Sybil, who just grinned, said nothing by way of explanation, and merely shrugged her shoulders. Let Edith she thought, draw her own conclusions!

Now that he was at least presentable, at the urgent entreaties of both Sybil and Edith, Tom promised he would go downstairs in search of Mary and bring her back to the hotel. Being of an inquisitive mind and the excellent journalist that he was, Tom also wanted to try and find out exactly what it was that had happened. He remembered that there had been shooting over in the park. Then shortly after that had come the explosion. But who had been involved, who or what had been the intended target; surely not those taking afternoon tea in the elegant dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel?

Of course, over the last few months, there had been increasing attacks made on British government property, raids for arms and ammunition made on isolated police barracks out in the countryside. There had been several robberies, undoubtedly to gain funds for the nascent Irish Republican Army and a handful of prominent members of the British administration had been murdered, among them Resident Magistrate John Milling, shot dead in his own home at night in Westport, County Mayo for having had the audacity to send members of the Irish Volunteer Force to prison for unlawful assembly and drilling. And there had also been several fatal shootings of members of the Royal Irish Constabulary.

However, Tom knew that the targeting innocent civilians, if that indeed was what had now happened, made no sense at all, would for certain, achieve nothing at all, would breed intense distrust and resentment of the republican cause when it could do with it the least, and that, an act as appalling as this would undoubtedly incense the British authorities and lead to harsh reprisals.

As the entrance hall hove into view below him, from the first landing of the main staircase, Tom could see that it had now all but emptied of the milling throng who had occupied it almost to overflowing less than an hour ago. However, for Tom, the semblance of normality was to be short lived. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Tom was taken totally unawares, by a constable with the Dublin Metropolitan Police, who suddenly lunged forward and grabbed hold of his arm.

"'Ere, sarge, 'ere's another of 'em!"

"Get your hands off me" yelled Tom angrily. "I'm no terrorist; I'm a journalist … with the Indy!"

"Yeah, course you are. Loike I'm the bleedin' Tsar of Russia!" sneered the constable.

Another police constable appeared in front of him, barring his way, pushed Tom none too gently in the chest.

"And just where the 'ell d'you t'ink you be goin' Paddy?"

Surrounded on all sides by a group of increasingly hostile police constables, a moment later, Tom found himself grabbed roughly from behind, his arms pinioned painfully up and behind his back. Trying to struggle free, he was punched hard several times in the stomach for his pains. In his present weakened state, the force of the blows winded him completely, causing him to double up in pain, to sink down to his knees.

"Don't like it, do you, not when you're gettin' it, yer fecking bowsie" yelled another constable. His face, contorted by rage, was so close to his own, that Tom could smell the plain on his breath, see the trail of spittle coursing unchecked down the man's chin.

"Just loike all you fecking Fenian bastards" screamed another.

"And when we gets you down the nick, don't be givin' us no guff you bleedin' Shinner!"

"You be tellin' us all you knows about the bloody bastards who did this and sure!"

"And don't be taking us for dawbegs. Cos by the time we've finished with you, yer oul wan won't be recognising you. That's if you evers had un!"

"I'll feckin do you now for sure! Yous won't be fatherin' any kids for sure, you feckin' Fenian bastard!" screamed another and with his booted right foot, the constable aimed a savage kick at Tom's groin.

Instinctively, recalling a trick he had learned as a boy from his time spent living rough on the streets of Dublin, Tom rolled himself into a ball, clasping his hands tightly across his genitals, hoping to ward off the worst of the inevitable pain inducing impact.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty Nine

The Floosie From The Monto

In the aftermath of the explosion, just about the very same time that Tom, now wearing a borrowed dark blue suit began making his way downstairs, Mary herself strode purposefully into the lobby of the Shelbourne Hotel. What she had expected to find, she knew not, but the sight which greeted her eyes was almost unrecognisable from what she remembered of the luxurious hotel's once grand entrance hall. Instead of the calm, discrete, and ordered reception which she and Edith had encountered here upon their arrival in Dublin but a day earlier, the prospect before her now was one of confusion, of noise, and of utter pandemonium.

If only for an instant, both horrified and stunned by what confronted her, just within the shattered doorway of the entrance hall Mary came to a complete and sudden stop. Before her stretched a milling throng, principally of both khaki and of blue; made up for the most part of British soldiers and of members of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, all seemingly engaged in attempting to bring some form of order out of complete chaos.

The once pristine marble floor of the lobby was heavily bloodstained, covered in debris and dirt, among which, and in makeshift circumstances too, several doctors and nurses were doing their very best comforting and attending to those who had been injured in the explosion and had not, as yet, been removed to hospital. Of those more fortunate souls, men, women, and children, who had survived the blast without sustaining any physical injury, some of whom Mary recognised as fellow guests from the hotel, even here and there one or two with whom both she and Edith had briefly conversed at dinner the previous evening, all of them were either being herded out of the lobby, or else making their own way up the grand staircase to the undamaged upper floors of the hotel.

"'**ere**, **you**! Yeah, **you**! 'ave some bloody sense for Christ sake! Don't block the fuckin' doorway!" bawled a British army sergeant. It took Mary a moment or two to appreciate that the shouted words, sprinkled with profanities, bellowed across the entrance lobby in the hearing of anyone present, were, in fact, actually aimed at her. Realising that to be the case, Mary shrank back out of sight behind a marble pillar as two army privates, between them carrying a laden stretcher, bearing a bloodied and heavily bandaged man, barged their way past her, out through what remained of the entrance doors and into the street beyond.

For a short while, Mary simply remained standing where she was. Then, having regained something of her customary composure, with the entrance lobby now at last beginning to empty of its terrified huddle of people, fearing for the very worst, Mary began to make her way over to the front desk to try and ascertain what had become of Edith, Sybil, and Tom. Here luck again intervened on her side as half way across the lobby she was hailed by the same young bell-boy who had helped see to her own and Edith's luggage upon their arrival; to be told by him that her sister, another lady he didn't recognise but in a nurse's uniform, and the gentleman with her, were all safe upstairs in her suite; that the same gentleman had rescued both the ladies from the hotel's dining room.

Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Mary bestowed upon the bell-boy a smile of dazzling brilliance, was fumbling in her purse, was about to give the lad something by way of a generous tip, when an altercation at the bottom of the main staircase diverted her attention. Surrounded by a group of baying, snarling police officers, amidst a heavy rain of blows and kicks, Mary saw a man with a bandaged forehead, dressed in a dark blue suit, double up, and collapse to his knees, at the foot of the hotel's grand staircase. It was as the man sunk down, rolled himself tightly into a ball, that with unseeing eyes, his face turned in Mary's own direction.

My God thought Mary. Tom!

On the floor, clutching his hands tightly across his groin, Tom readied himself for the brutal impact of the vicious kick aimed at his testicles. But the savagely aimed kick never made contact with his body; the expected searing pain never materialised. From somewhere above him, beyond the group of screaming, shouting police officers came the sound of a familiar voice. One Tom knew well, which brooked no opposition and which, owned the unmistakeable inflection of rank.

"I say! You! You there! Yes, you! Stop that this instant! How dare you! As for taking him anywhere, you will be doing no such thing. Now, do as I say and take your filthy hands off him!"

"And who the 'ell might you be to be giving us orders, miss la-di-dah? The Queen o' feckin' Sheba is it?" demanded the police sergeant impertinently, angered at being baulked so summarily of the pleasure, as he saw it, of kicking the hell out of yet another bloody Fenian. Several of his companions laughed raucously, made coarse and obscene gestures, cast amorous and lecherous glances, at the strikingly beautiful dark haired woman who calmly, unflinchingly, stood her ground before them and their deluge of profanities.

"Yeah! Who the feckin' 'ell d'you think yous is missus?"

"Yer cheeky feckin' bitch!" added another. He licked his lips, while roving his eyes impertinently over the remarkably attractive woman in front of him. What wouldn't he give for a bit of that!

"Bugger off!"

"Where yer from, yer feckin' floosie?"

"Up Amiens Street, in the Monto for sure!" laughed another.

At this last utterance, the rest of the men roared with laughter, but much to their annoyance, it seemed completely lost on the woman. But then, so it would be; for only a native of the city would have known that the Monto was Dublin's notorious red light district.

"How much yous askin' for a good time, dearie?"  
"Right. Now feck off!" interposed another.

"Yeah. Bugger off. Stop interferin' with His Majesty's police in the lawful execution of their duties!"

"**Lawful execution** …" began Mary, appalled and horrified both by the constables' disrespect and rudeness towards her, and by what she had just witnessed of Irish police brutality

So, thought Mary, this is how it's going to be, is it? Very well then, so be it. Summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed which, to be truthful, at that precise moment in time, did not amount to very much at all, Mary drew herself up to her full height, swallowed hard, and then spoke crisply, authoritatively, and to the point.

"For your information, I am Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter to the earl and countess of Grantham. And that man there in your grubby little hands **is"** - a small lie given the circumstances, thought Mary – "my brother-in-law, Mr. Tom Branson, the well known, respected journalist, with the Irish Times. Now, do as I say and take your hands off him! **Now**!"

For one brief horrified instant, Mary saw the constables make no move to do as she had instructed.

"**Did you not hear me**? **I** am **not** someone who is accustomed to be in the habit of repeating myself. And make no mistake about it, my father, the earl of Grantham will hear about this. I should perhaps make it clear that he is on very good terms with the present Lord Lieutenant, the Viceroy, Viscount French. In fact, he is" - another little lie thought Mary - "dining with him at Dublin Castle tonight!" she added, hopefully for good measure, and in as haughty a tone as she could muster.

The constables glanced nervously one to each other, and then looked to their sergeant for guidance as to what they should do now. For his part, the sergeant scowled briefly at Mary, then nodded curtly to his men. Beating up a soddin' Fenian was one thing, but getting carpeted for it, well that was something else. No need for that. Never mind, there would be others; plenty of others.

By now, Tom had been hauled roughly to his feet and those who were holding him up against the wall reluctantly, and suddenly, released their firm grip on him. With the unexpected withdrawal of the constables' physical support of him, winded by the sadistic beating he had received at their hands, Tom sank once more to his knees, doubling up in agony on the bottom step of the staircase against the wall.

"Christ Almighty!" "Oh, feckin' hell!" moaned Tom. He rolled over on his side clutching at his chest.

Several minutes passed …

No, Tom thought. It can't be; surely not? I must have passed out … I must be dreaming.

He couldn't believe what was happening; supposed it must be something to do with the shock caused to his nervous system by the force of the explosion; by the savage beating which he had just received at the hands of the polees. But no, by God. No! She was **real**.

Kneeling before him, at the foot of the main staircase, on the now debris and dirt strewn floor of the entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel, was Sybil's eldest sister, the ever imperious, immaculately dressed, Lady Mary Crawley. However, even in his present befuddled state, Tom could see that Mary was not quite as impeccably presented as was normally the case. Her coat was muddied; her hat worn slightly awry and several curls of dark hair had escaped from the confines of her normally perfect coiffure. And surely not? But yes. There were even several smudges of dirt on the flawless ivory skin of her face.

Tom smelt the scent of eau-de-cologne, winced as Mary applied it to his face with a delicate, lace edged, white hand kerchief; gently, tenderly, with infinite care, she began wiping away the trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

"Lady Mary … Sybil … Edith … they're all right … both of them" croaked Tom. "They're upstairs".

"Yes, I know. Thank God" said Mary. "A bell-boy here at the hotel told me and from what else he told me, I understand that is all thanks to you". Tom winced again as Mary continued applying the cologne to the cuts on his face.

"Lady Mary, I can manage …" Tom stopped, as a spasm of harsh coughing overtook him, shook his pain wracked body.

"No, Tom, you can't" said Mary softly.

**Tom**? Did she just call me Tom?

**Now**, thought Mary. **Now** was the moment.

Unwittingly, Tom had given her the opportunity to start trying to make amends and seize the opportunity she did, silently thanking him for making it so easy for her to do so. With a curt, imperious wave of her free hand, Mary silenced him, cut short his protests. At the same time she fought back a sudden urge to laugh. Not at Tom; that would have been completely callous, but at the sheer incongruousness of the situation in which they found themselves. Their former roles were now so completely and so totally reversed; in fact, had gone beyond the point of recall, even if she had wanted them restored to what they had once been. And, just as suddenly, Mary knew in her own heart that she did not want that at all. Not now. Not ever.

"No, Tom" she said gently. "It's **Mary**. From now on, and for all time. Just, Mary. After all, we're almost related". And, with a sense of growing disbelief, Tom felt an arm placed comfortingly around his back. The sense of his bewilderment grew, when he realised it was **her** arm.

"Do you think you can try and stand?" asked Mary gently.

"I can try" said Tom, painfully and through gritted teeth. Slowly, with her help and breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, Tom pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the staircase wall for yet further support.

"Oh, Tom …" began Mary with a light chuckle. She then gave him a beautiful smile. A smile that she bestowed rarely and would never have thought ever to have used on him. Then, deliberately choosing to echo Sybil's words from earlier that afternoon in the dining room, she said in the most matter-of-fact tone she could muster:

"You know Tom; you really are an utter mess!"

Tom grinned. "Don't I just know it. I don't think I'd be up to …" He paused momentarily to gain his breath. " …driving you anywhere at the moment, milady" he said with half a smile, and then winced as another spasm of pain shot through him.

"Don't you worry about that" said Mary. "After all, as Edith told you, this hotel has its own chauffeurs, even if they're not a patch on you!"

At that, Tom smiled.

"But, to be sure" he said and grinned broadly at her.

Concerned for him as she was, Mary found herself smiling back. She had to concede that even in Tom's present utterly dejected and dishevelled state, for a woman, there was something intensely, unnervingly physically appealing about him. And, unconsciously echoing Edith's observation from earlier on, wondered why on earth it was that she hadn't ever noticed it before. No wonder Sybil had fallen for him.

"As you happen to mention it, no, Tom, I don't suppose you'd be much use as a chauffeur at present. But that's all done with. Now … my fine, upstanding, future brother-in-law … now that the boot's well and truly on the other foot, so to speak, it's** my** turn to help **you**. Come on, lean on me if you need to" said Mary.

"I think … Mary" said Tom ruefully and rubbing his still aching arms, "the least said about boots the better! And, by the way, for the record, I'm with the Independent!"

"Does **that** really matter? At a time like this?" asked Mary with barely concealed surprise.

"Oh rather" said Tom decidedly.

"Really?" asked Mary with the slightest degree of exasperation present in her voice. Honestly, she thought, at times, men concerned themselves with the most trivial of things.

"No, not really" said Tom.

It was then that Mary noticed the twinkle in his eyes, the slight smile playing about the corners of his mouth. They both burst out laughing.

"Do you know what, Tom, I rather think I'm going to enjoy having you for my brother-in-law after all" said Mary when they had finally stopped laughing

"Glad to hear it. So no firing squad then?" asked Tom with a painful chuckle.

"No. Definitely not" said Mary with another laugh.

Then, one faltering step at a time, the most unlikely pairing, of the aristocratic, elegant, imperious, refined, decidedly English, eldest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham, and the beaten, bloodied and presently dishevelled, Irish, socialist journalist began their slow and painful ascent of the grand staircase of the Shelbourne Hotel.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

Of Cavemen And Confidences

"So, do you really think Tom will be able to find Mary and bring her back here?" asked Edith, unable to conceal her mounting anxiety; almost an hour had passed since Tom had set off in search of Mary, and as yet neither of them had returned to the hotel.

"Don't fret, Edith. Of course he will. Just give him time" said Sybil, her voice muffled by the folds of a towel. Wearing one of Mary's floral silk dressing gowns, Sybil was sitting perched on the end of Edith's bed, vigorously engaged in drying her hair. "Darling, Tom **will** find her. I'm sure of it". Sybil stopped what she was doing; reached out a comforting, re-assuring hand towards her sister seated next to her. "As for bringing Mary back here to the Shelbourne, Tom will do that right enough, even if to do so he has to pick her up and sling her over his shoulder".

Sybil grinned broadly at the thought of the image she had just conjured up. Dearest Tom, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, improbably cast in the guise of a handsome, laughing, twentieth century caveman; wearing nothing but a couple of animal skins - Sybil flushed at the very thought - a heavy wooden club held in one hand, striding back here to the hotel from St. Stephen's Green, with Mary thrown casually over his bare shoulder like some prize trophy, giving her sister a hefty slap across her rump every time she became difficult. Sybil could just hear Mary.

"Branson put me down this instant!"

Her mental image of Tom must, thought Sybil, have been prompted, at least in part, by a picture of a half naked caveman that as a child she had found in a book in the nursery back at Downton; a picture which, at the time, and probably even now, her grandmother thought highly improper for the inquisitive eyes of an impressionable young girl. Improper indeed, snorted Sybil. Oh, Granny, if only you but knew what Tom and I have been up to since our arrival here in Ireland!

"**Sybil**! Tom wouldn't do that, would he?" Edith sounding, thoroughly aghast at the very prospect, clasped her hands together, stood up and walked purposefully across the room to the window of her bedroom overlooking St. Stephen's Green.

"No; of course not" said Sybil, her sister's words breaking into her reverie. "At least I don't think so. But with all that's happened here today, I don't think Tom will stand for any more of her nonsense; so Mary had better watch her step!" At that she became practical once more, laying aside her towel. "Oh thank goodness. I do feel so much better for a bath".

"But darling, shouldn't they both have been back before now?" persisted Edith anxiously.

"Well, yes and no. You see, Edith, it does all rather depend on exactly where it is Mary's taken herself off to".

"Oh well, she said that she…"

"You're certain Mary said she wanted to see the park?"  
Edith nodded her assent.

"That's what Mary said. Mind you, that was before …"

"Well, darling, if that's where she's gone, then Tom will find her. St. Stephen's Green is quite large, mind. Tom and I went there for a walk a couple of weeks ago. It's very pleasant, what with the trees, the flowers, and the winding paths. Then there's the bandstand, the fountain, the lakes, and the ducks too".

Edith nodded absent-mindedly. With her damp hair hanging loosely to her shoulders, clad in her dressing gown, idly drawing aside the net curtain, she gazed down at the scene unfolding below the window.

In the street outside the hotel, members of the Dublin police, ably aided by British soldiers from the Yorkshire Regiment, had finally succeeded, in some cases having had to resort to using force, in clearing away the very last of all those who had come to stand and gaze fixedly at the scene of devastation. Elsewhere, city workman and employees of the tramway company were now busily engaged in variety of tasks; starting to fill in the crater in the road, removing bent and twisted rails, shovelling and sweeping the pavements clear of debris and dirt. Shrouded in a billowing cloud of smoke and steam, its whistle shrieking piercingly, a labouring, ponderous traction engine was in the process of being attached to the wrecked tram so as to enable it to be hauled out of the way.

Under the ever watchful, zealous eyes of those police constables who had been ordered to remain behind at the scene so as to ensure that there was no loitering in the vicinity of the explosion, pedestrians started to venture back along the nearby pavements. Thereafter, in a coughing, noisy, noxious fug of fumes, the motor traffic began to be on the move too. Slowly, a semblance of normality re-asserted itself, although it would take much longer than a few hours' work to put right all the damage caused by the explosion. As for those unlucky enough to have been caught up in the nightmare of what had happened, the physical injuries, the mental scars, the hurt, the pain, the loss, would last much longer, would take much longer to heal; in some cases never would, would last for a lifetime.

Edith let the net curtain drop back into place and turned back to face her sister.

"Thank goodness! The trams and motors have started moving again and all those people gathered down there on the pavement opposite the hotel are leaving too. Has anything like this ever happened before Sybil, I mean, after you came over here to Ireland?" asked Edith.  
"Not exactly like this, no" said Sybil confidently. "But … from some of the things Tom's had to cover as a journalist, some of the incidents he's told me about, it doesn't really surprise me. I suppose something like this was bound to happen sooner or later".

"But why on earth would anyone do such a terrible thing?" asked Edith. She sounded genuinely bemused.

"I tried to tell both you and Mary about it, earlier this afternoon" said Sybil gently. "The British are very unpopular over here Edith. In fact, they have been for years; have out stayed their welcome, if ever they had one in the first place. As to why, well Tom's told me some of the reasons behind all the clamour for independence. Much of it sounds like ancient history to me; even, I suspect to Tom. But, also from what I've read in the papers, what I've heard people say at the hospital where I work, what I've seen, I can understand only too well why the Irish want their independence. Mind you, I'm sure there's a great deal more besides, which Tom hasn't told me, and his reason for not telling me, is that I suspect my darling Tom doesn't want me to worry".

"Worry? About what?" asked Edith. Sybil sighed resignedly, wondering if either Edith or Mary would ever truly grasp what was happening over here in Ireland.

"Over tea, do you remember that Tom told you that as a journalist, sometimes he has to go to places, into situations which could be, might turn out to be, unpredictable, even dangerous?"  
Edith nodded her head in confirmation.

"Some of the events he's reported on, some of the pieces he's written, well, not everyone likes what Tom has to say. Not their cup of tea so to speak. You may find it hard to believe this Edith, especially after how both Tom and I kept our plans so secret from everyone back at Downton, you included, but Tom's always believed in the principle of telling the truth. However, sometimes the truth isn't what people want to hear - on either side. I know anonymous threats have been sent to the Independent, about some of its articles, their content. I expect the majority of those pieces will have been written by Tom. He hasn't said much to me about it, very little in fact; but, it scares me, Edith. If anything should happen to him …" Sybil broke off what she was saying, swallowed hard.

"You really do love him, don't you, Sybil" said Edith huskily, looking across at her sister. Her words were voiced seemingly as a question, but in fact, were more a simple confirmation of what Edith already knew to be the case.

"Yes, of course, I do" said Sybil smiling. "He means everything to me, Edith. I know that to have been the case for so much longer than I cared to admit, even to myself. I was so naïve, such a fool. If I'd only stopped to consider, if I'd only looked, really looked, then I would have seen Tom's feelings for what they were and I would have realised too, far sooner than I did, that I felt the same way about him. After all, Tom never made any secret about his feelings towards me; he wore his heart for me on the sleeve of his chauffeur's jacket. And now, I simply can't imagine a life without him. Don't ask me how I know it Edith, but know it I do, that down to our very lives' end, our love for each other will never change. The plain and simple truth of the matter is that I absolutely adore him".

"I envy you, Sybil, truly I do" said Edith at length and with heartfelt conviction. "Somehow, you and Tom have managed to find something very rare and very precious, worth fighting for, worth hanging on to. Why, you only have to look at the two of you together to see that to be so. But then, I don't have to tell you that do I?"

"No, you don't" laughed Sybil, breaking into a broad smile. "Somehow I know that whatever comes, however stormy the waters, we'll make it through. I know we will".

Looking down at her left hand, Sybil fingered her engagement ring, a simple unadorned band, thinking back, remembering...

_They had been standing up on the boat deck, over by the ship's rail, while the Munster steamed onward across the sunlit, sparkling waters of the Irish Sea, carrying them across the wide sweep of the ocean, over to their new life together here in Ireland. Blissfully happy and content, Sybil enfolded in Tom's strong arms, they stood together looking out across the limitless vista of the open sea. A moment later and Tom had slipped down onto one knee before her. Reverently taking her hand in his it was then that he had slid this very same ring onto her finger. _

Here, in the soft silence of this beautiful room, in probably the finest suite, in the most expensive hotel, right in the very heart of Dublin, even after all that had happened, if Sybil but closed her eyes, the memories came flooding back.

_Tom was holding her close in his arms. Above her she heard the raucous cry of the gulls, while from far below came the thunderous roar of the waves. Beneath her feet she felt the rhythmic beat of the ship's engines, and on her face the biting sting of the salt spray. They kissed passionately, her fingers gently caressing the soft contours of his face. Tasting the sweetness of his lips, she saw dappled sunlight catch flecks of gold in his hair, and Tom's overwhelming love for her, reflected in the depths of his deep blue eyes. Later, as they stood together gazing out across the boundless swell of the ocean, it was then that Sybil knew that as sure as the wind kept blowing, Tom was her talisman; her very life. Whatever happened, nothing, nothing on earth, could ever divide the love they shared._


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter Forty One

Very Pleased To Make Your Acquaintance

The sounds of men at work, of people walking along the pavement, of all manner of traffic in the street below, drifted in through the open window of the sitting room of Mary and Edith's palatial suite overlooking St. Stephen's Green.

"It's just so awful, so terribly, terribly sad, that the rest of the family, granny, Papa, Mama, Mary, can't, won't, see beyond their own blinkered ideas and narrow view of how they think things ought to be" said Sybil miserably.

Edith smiled gently at her.

"I do understand, Sybil, really I do".

Sybil nodded.

"They just can't accept that Tom and I have fallen in love, intend to marry, and want to live our lives the way **we** want to live them. Is there anything so very wrong in that; in any of it?" Sybil, her face now wet with tears, gazed questioningly across at Edith.

"No, of course not darling" said Edith sympathetically. She reached out and grasped her sister's hands. "But, you must understand too, Sybil, that none of them like change; of any kind. If we're honest with ourselves, then I suppose none of us does, not really; except, of course, perhaps you! What with the war … the old ways of doing things are no longer acceptable; not any more. The old certainties, for all their faults, they're no longer there to latch onto. Marrying out of one's own class, well it's not something they've ever come across before. Oh, we both know it's happened before, usually because…"

"I'm marrying Tom because I love him, and he loves me, not because I'm in any kind of trouble!" snapped Sybil. "In fact, he's always been the perfect gentleman, every bit as good, as Cousin Matthew, and certainly far better than Papa!"

"I don't doubt that, Sybil, truly, I don't". Edith reached out a comforting hand again.

"Tom's been so patient with me. Do you know when he first asked me to marry him?"  
"When he **first** asked you to marry him?" Edith shook her head, thinking that she herself had never enjoyed so much as one proposal, and now here was Sybil telling her that Tom had proposed to her more than once.

"It was when I went off to train as a nurse in York".

"Good God, Sybil! Why, that… that was years ago".

"Yes" said Sybil levelly, "it was. So you see, Edith, this isn't some spur-of-the-moment decision, done out of necessity. Tom and I love each other. That's all there is to it".

Edith nodded.

"I understand, Sybil, really I do. But, as for the rest of the family … for all the grumbling granny does, all her nonsense about keeping herself informed? I don't think she really understands what's happened in the aftermath of the war. After all, the world she knew ceased to exist with the death of Queen Victoria! As for Mama and for Papa, well it's rather different for them. Mama's always been so much more ready to accept change, at least eventually, probably because she's an American! It's much more difficult for Papa. It frightens him; the pace of it all. He said as much to me once – after you and Tom had left for Ireland. I know it makes Papa fearful for the future, for what will happen to Downton. I think that's why he behaved so ba …" Edith paused. "…re-acted the way he did, when you and Tom announced your engagement. After all, for as long as any of us can remember, Downton has been Papa's whole life. You mentioned earlier, what happened to the Tremayne's house over here in Ireland? Can you imagine how Papa would feel, if that was to happen to Downton?"

"Well, that's hardly likely, now is it" said Sybil, somewhat dismissively.

"No, it isn't" said Edith patiently. "But then, if you think about it, Sybil, I don't suppose the Tremaynes ever expected Curraghmore to be burnt down. Just think what if the situation was reversed and Tom was an Irish landowner. I know he isn't, but just suppose for a moment that he was, how would he feel seeing his family home burnt to the ground, all of his memories going up in smoke? From what I've read in the newspapers several landowners have been shot while trying to defend their own homes. Why Sybil, what is it? What have I said?" Looking closely at her sister, Edith observed that suddenly, Sybil had turned very pale.

"It's nothing" said Sybil recovering herself somewhat. "Nothing at all; I was just thinking, what if, as you said, Tom was an Irish landowner, what if…" Sybil paused. Quite by chance, not that she could ever know it, dear Edith had just blundered onto the truth of how things stood.

However, before Sybil had a chance to say anything else by way of reply, there came a gentle, but insistent knocking at the door to their sitting room. Edith rose, walked calmly across the room to the door and opened it, to find Mary and Tom standing before her in the passage outside.

In an instant, Edith immediately took in Tom's distinctly tousled appearance, the cuts and bruises to his face, his bleeding lip. She also took in Mary's equally dishevelled state and most of all saw that Mary seemed to be supporting Tom. His right arm was flung carelessly around her sister's shoulders, while Mary's left arm was clasped tightly around his waist. Sybil heard Edith's gasp of amazement, the horrified comment which followed swiftly upon it.

"My God! **Mary!** **Tom!** Why, what on earth's happened?"

"Never mind that now" said Mary briskly. "Here, help me with Tom, please Edith".

"With **who**?" Edith sounded thoroughly disconcerted.

"With **Tom**" said Mary crisply. "Our future brother-in-law. Edith, darling, you may be many things, but you are not preternaturally stupid. Unless I'm very much mistaken, I do believe that you two **are** already acquainted? If not, Lady Edith Crawley, may I present Mr. Tom Branson. Mr. Tom Branson, Lady Edith Crawley. Introductions over; now, darling, please do as I ask and help me" said Mary swiftly.

Tom smiled weakly, gave Edith an endearing lop-sided grin.

"Have we… have we met before, Lady Edith?" he asked, playing along. "If not, I'm so… so very pleased to make your acquaintance". Tom looked ashen. He winced, obviously in pain.

By now Sybil was at the door too. Her hands flew to her mouth and her face blanched when she saw the state in which Tom was. Together, Sybil and her two sisters helped Tom gently over to settee where they sat him down. Instinctively, heedless of the presence of both Mary and Edith, Sybil went down on her knees in front of Tom, cupping his well loved face tenderly between her hands, kissing his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips.

"Oh, Tom, my darling! My dearest dear! Whatever's happened to you?" pleaded Sybil beseechingly, her face wet with tears. Covering her hands gently with his, Tom smiled down at her.

"It's nothing … love, really. Ran into a bit of trouble … downstairs. Some constables … over-zealous, in their duty... mistook me… for somebody else. But Mary … Mary here … she came to my rescue, didn't you, Mary? And … in the nick of time!" Tom glanced up at Sybil's eldest sister. "She was… truly wonderful; a knight… a knight in shining armour!"

**Mary?** thought Sybil. **Mary**! He's calling her Mary, and she doesn't seem to mind at all!

"Well, I've been called many things in my time, but a knight in shining armour? Well, really Tom, that is undoubtedly a first!" said Mary with a soft laugh.

"Well" said Tom, trying his best to stifle a sudden gasp of pain, "I'll have … have to let the poless… work me over… more often if … if this is the result … being looked after … by three beautiful women!"

Sybil and Edith exchanged equally surprised glances, both wondering at the sudden easy familiarity, the unexpected camaraderie, which seemed to have sprung up from out of nowhere between Tom and their eldest sister. And, as with Mary downstairs in the entrance hall of the hotel but a short while ago, so now this time with Tom here in Mary and Edith's sitting room, the complete incongruousness of the present situation was not lost on him; with Sybil kneeling on the floor in front of him, and Edith and Mary hovering close by, their heartfelt, overwhelming concern for him etched on all their faces. Tom tried to smile, then winced again, hugged his chest tightly with his arms.

"Tom, my darling!" cried Sybil.

"I'm fine" said Tom recovering himself somewhat. He coughed harshly. "A few bruises … not many more than I had, not after … not after what happened. Tell you about it … later, love. Promise. I'm fine … just need… just need to rest" said Tom haltingly.

He winced again, managed the briefest of smiles at Sybil, while at the same time taking slow, laboured breaths, his eyes sparkling. As long as Sybil was with him, Tom knew he could overcome anything, even the near constant pain in his chest. He shot a beseeching look at Mary conveying to her, he hoped, that he did not want Sybil to know the whole truth of what had happened to him; at least not yet.

"No, you're not fine" said Sybil in the most matter-of-fact tone she could muster. "Mary, he needs a doctor, now!" she implored.  
Mary nodded her immediate acquiescence, at once picking up the telephone.

"This is Lady Mary Crawley …" she said crisply.


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter Forty Two

Throwing Caution To The Winds

While they awaited the arrival of the doctor, with laboured breaths, Tom continued to insist, that his more recent injuries amounted to no more than several cuts and bruises added to those he had sustained in the aftermath of the explosion.

Nevertheless, in the meantime, while awaiting the doctor, despite Tom's protests that he was perfectly all right, Sybil insisted that he be made as comfortable as possible. Fetching warm water in a bowl from the bathroom, with swabs of cotton wool soaked in iodine from Mary's small supply of medicines, sitting close to Tom on the settee, Sybil set about attending to the various cuts to his face; while Edith hurried into her bedroom, returning almost immediately with two pillows and a blanket clutched in her arms which she then placed at one end of the settee before retreating to the other.

Tom looked absolutely ashen, his breathing laboured.

"Tom, darling. This is going to hurt a little, love" as she began to bathe his cuts. Tom grimaced as the iodine stung. "Take easy breaths now" urged Sybil gently smoothing back his hair from where it had fallen over his forehead, wiping her fingers softly across his damp brow. "This won't have done his heart any good at all" she said quietly more to herself than to anyone else present in the room.

"His heart?" asked Edith questioningly.

"Yes, his heart. Why do you think Tom wasn't conscripted to fight during the war?"  
Mary and Edith looked nonplussed.

"He has a weak heart" snapped Sybil, now frantic with worry, tears starting in her eyes. "Mary, help me with him please, we need to make him more comfortable".

"I'm all right, Syb. Don't fuss" said Tom, sounding uncharacteristically grumpy and peevish. If the truth be told, he didn't feel right at all, not that he would say so; he didn't want to worry Sybil unduly. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead and instead of lessening, the pain in his chest seemed to be becoming worse.

"What do you need me to do?" asked Mary seeing Sybil's obvious distress.

"Unlace his shoes, and take them off. Then help me turn him, so he can lie down full length".

Surprisingly, Mary made no protest, and once she had removed Tom's shoes, between the two of them they swung his legs up onto the settee where Tom sank wearily back against the pillows which Edith had provided. Mary stood back, surveying Tom's prone form. In similar circumstances, would she herself do the same for Richard? Unconsciously she shook her head; thought it unlikely that she would.

Having bathed the cuts to his face, Sybil now busied herself helping Tom out of his jacket, deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat, removed that too, along with his tie, and then began undoing the buttons of his shirt. She heard Edith gasp.

"Sybil, surely you don't mean to ..."

"Oh for goodness' sake Edith, don't be such a goose. You helped out with the soldiers in the convalescent home at Downton during the war, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, but that was different. I was only fetching them books, writing letters, that sort of thing".

"For Heaven's sake, I've seen Tom in a great deal less than this" said Sybil. She helped Tom, now shirtless, into a sitting position, deftly raising his arms above his head while supporting his back so she could pull off his vest. Realising what she had just said, Sybil coloured red, stopped what she was doing. Mary raised an expressive eyebrow while Edith looked suitably embarrassed by their sister's startling revelation.

"Tom and I have no secrets from each other. We love each other dearly" said Sybil. Dispassionately, she continued stripping Tom of his vest. A moment later and she gasped in horror at the several rapidly darkening bruises and raw grazes now revealed to view upon Tom's naked torso.

Hearing her rapid intake of breath, Tom glanced down at his bare chest.

"It's all right, love, it ... it looks... worse than it is" he wheezed through gritted teeth.

"No. No it isn't" sobbed Sybil beginning to bathe the grazes on his chest. "How on earth could anyone do this, to you, of all people?"

Having attended to all of Tom's grazes, with infinite care, ever so gently, Sybil began to feel his ribs, praying that the bruises and grazes, bad as they themselves appeared, were indeed the sum total of his injuries. If so, in time, they would heal by themselves.

"Sybil" said Mary softly, "do you really think you should be doing ..."

Sybil seemed not to hear her. Then she looked up. "I'm sorry, Mary. What did you just say?"

Mary nodded towards Tom, now stripped to the waist, submitting patiently to Sybil's gentle and probing ministrations. Mary's practised eye missed nothing, took in Tom's masculine physique, battered and bruised to be sure, but strong and muscular all the same; the light patch of hairs nestling in the middle of his chest, saw where the curling hairs darkened and thickened as they disappeared downwards out of view beneath the waistband of his trousers.

"Darling, I know you're engaged, but do you really think...

"Oh for goodness' sake, Mary, look at me!" Sybil indicated her uniform with an angry wave of her hand. "I'm a nurse! Given what I saw during the war, do you really think this sort of thing bothers me? Besides, I've seen Tom naked several times ..."

Sybil heard Edith's sharp intake of breath.

"Oh Edith, don't be so ... so positively Victorian!" snapped Sybil, not bothering to look up or to make any attempt to hide her evident irritation with her elder sister.

For her part, Mary said nothing in response to Sybil's matter-of-fact revelation, but the twitch of her expressive eyebrows said it all. Evidently her baby sister no longer but instead a woman of the world; or so Sybil would have them believe.

"In fact" said Sybil, "you both might as well know it, not of course that it's really any of your business, but since we arrived here in Ireland, Tom and I ... well we've slept together, as man and wife, not once but several times now. And before you ask, no, Tom didn't force himself upon me. We made love together because we wanted to; the both of us".

At this juncture, Mary raised her eyebrows once again; a wry smile flickered at the corners of her mouth; a woman of the world indeed then. Edith, meanwhile, looked anywhere else other than at Sybil, or for that matter, at Tom, whose face had just turned a shade akin to vermilion.

"I really don't know why we all make such a ruddy fuss about something so completely normal" continued Sybil in her no-nonsense tone. "After all, between two people who love each other as much as Tom and I do, it's a perfectly natural thing to do. There's no point pretending we come out of the rainbow when we're eighteen, so there's an end to it! I assume neither of you have heard of Marie Stopes?" Sybil glanced casually from Mary to Edith then back again. "No, I thought not. Well no matter" said Sybil briskly.

"Love, I think... you've just ... just managed ... to shock ... your sisters" croaked Tom. He grinned, looked sheepishly up at her.

"You be quiet Mr. Branson" said Sybil curtly; unaware until now that Tom had been following her every word. "I can't find any broken bones or feel any fractures. All the same Tom, you just lie there and keep quiet until the doctor comes" added Sybil in the most authoritative tone she could command; before beginning, with a practised hand, to fold up his clothes.

"Yes milady". Tom nodded his head, chuckled, sighed a little too deeply, and then winced again with pain.

"You'd better do as she says. Tom" said Mary wryly. "Nurse's orders!"

It was just then that Mary caught sight of darling Tom's face. He was doing his very best not to laugh. Mary's face twitched as an amusing thought just struck her. What if, somehow, granny, Papa, and Mama had been present here in this room to overhear what Sybil had just said? It really was too funny for words. A moment later and she could contain herself no longer; Mary, followed, despite his injuries, by Tom, then by Edith, all promptly burst out laughing, thus dissipating the overt tensions which had arisen in the room following Sybil's startling revelation and her candid, almost casual expression to them of her opinions on matters sexual.

After all, thought Mary, given her own nocturnal encounter with the late Mr. Pamuk, who was she, let alone Edith, to lecture their youngest sister, or indeed anyone else for that matter, on what was or was not proper conduct for a lady in such matters. In any event, reflected Mary ruefully, Tom and Sybil could always be counted upon to do things differently from everyone else, would always go their own way; their unorthodox courtship and engagement bore testimony to that. It was part of what made them both who they were; was something which, now that Mary had come to see and fully appreciate just how much Tom and Sybil loved each other that, in turn, made her love the two of them all the more.

"Sybil..." began Edith.

"Hm?"

"Do you mind me asking, but who is ..."

"Yes?"

Edith tried again.

"Exactly who is ..." Once again, Edith stopped what she was saying, seemingly unable to continue. The colour of her face now matched that of Tom's from but a few minutes before.

"Oh Edith, really!" exclaimed Mary. "Here, let me. Sybil. Darling. Just who is Marie Stopes?"

"Do you really want to know?" asked Sybil not believing what it was that Mary had just asked her.

Mary, and Edith, nodded their assent.

"Well then ..." began Sybil, seemingly oblivious to Tom's presence on the settee.

Tom groaned and rolled his eyes.

What on earth would the Dowager Countess say if she could eavesdrop on her three grand-daughters' animated discussion taking place here in a hotel bedroom in Dublin on Marie Stopes' modern views on marriage and birth control, all conducted in the presence of the family's half-naked, former chauffeur?

Not for the first time, since Mary's telephone call to the reception desk of the Shelbourne Hotel requesting the attendance of a doctor, and for entirely different reasons to those which might be expected, Tom now found himself wishing that the same doctor would simply hurry up and put in an appearance.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter Forty Three

By The Shore Of The Silver Sea

The doctor summoned by Mary's urgent telephone call had finally arrived; was now with Tom. But while Sybil had insisted on staying put in the sitting room while the doctor examined him, for the sake of propriety, for the time being at least, Edith and Mary had both retreated to the peace and quiet of Edith's bedroom. Once there, her hands placed demurely in her lap, Mary sat and explained in some detail to Edith exactly what had happened to her when she left the hotel, and thereafter when she returned to the Shelbourne in the aftermath of the explosion.

"So, you see, Edith from what I've now told you, it really was very lucky for me, running into Captain Stathum like that. Why, given all the circumstances, if he hadn't been on duty down there in the street outside the hotel, I don't know quite what I should have done" said Mary, the relief still evident in her voice. "He really was so very helpful. Of course, I will write to him at the Castle, before we sail for England. It's only right and proper that I do so, and convey to him my thanks once again for all his help".

"And you say we met him, all of us, some years ago, at Aunt Rosamund's house up in London?" asked Edith. She sounded somewhat dubious.

Mary nodded her assent.

"Yes, darling, as I told you, at Sybil's eighteenth birthday party, although he was only a lieutenant then, serving with the Suffolks. At least that's what he told me earlier this afternoon. To be quite honest, I can't say that I actually remember him. Come to think of it, I do have a vague recollection of making polite conversation with an army officer at some point during that evening, although from what I recall of it, he was a crashing bore. I suppose it must have been him".

"Yes, I suppose it must" said Edith disinterestedly. "I wonder how darling Tom is doing. How on earth could those police officers have set about him like that? It's so terribly awful!"

"Yes, darling, it is. But he'll be just fine. Trust me. The doctor will do whatever needs to be done to make him well again and darling Sybil will take very good care of him. You'll see". Mary reached out a comforting hand.

Edith nodded, disregarded Mary's outstretched hand.

"Yes, of course. I suppose you're right" she said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

A moment later as another, more pleasing, memory stirred in Mary's mind, she smiled. The smile broadened, and then deepened.

Edith looked quizzically at her sister.

"Mary, what is it?"

"Do you remember meeting that dark haired Greek naval attaché, from Athens? He was there too you know".

"Who?"  
"Captain Vassiliadis".

"Where?"  
"At Sybil's birthday party, silly!"

Edith shook her head slowly.

"No, no, I can't say that I do".

"So very handsome, such expressive eyes" said Mary. She sighed wistfully. "He'd been a house guest of Papa and Mama's, at Downton earlier in the year. I think Papa had met him at the Foreign Office up in London. Anyway, during the course of our conversation, Captain Vassiliadis - he was frightfully full of himself as I recall - asked me if I would care to go riding with him, in Hyde Park the following morning. It was frightfully forward of him... on so slight an acquaintance".

"Heavens! How positively awful for you" said Edith, sympathetically. "I'd have been utterly mortified if he'd suggested anything like that to me".

"Well I suppose **you **would have been, not being possessed of quite the same adventurous spirit as myself" said Mary acidly.

"And I'm sure Richard just loves that side of your character" said Edith sarcastically.

At Edith's acerbic comment Mary's eyes narrowed.

"So did you?" asked Edith swiftly, reading the warning signs, and in the circumstances, not wishing to risk starting a quarrel.

"Did I what?" asked Mary loftily.

"Go riding with the Greek naval attaché in Hyde Park?"

Mary shook her head emphatically.

"Why darling of course not; after all, how could I possibly do such a thing? My reputation would have been ruined".

"Indeed it would". Edith nodded, smiling inwardly to herself, and sparing a fleeting thought for the now decidedly deceased Mr. Pamuk once of Constantinople.

"And then", continued Mary, "when I told dearest Papa about it afterwards, when we were all safely back at Downton, what Captain Vassiliadis had proposed, why Papa nearly had a fit!" Mary's thoughts then came back to the present, drifted to both Tom and Sybil; she glanced towards the door of their sitting room and smiled. "My goodness, how times change!"

"And the young lad you befriended this afternoon?" asked Edith.

"**Helped**, darling. Not befriended".

"Helped then. The young lad you **helped **this afternoon. You said heand his mother told you that they came from down near Cork?" asked Edith.

"Yes, darling. From somewhere called Ster... Sk... Skerries. At least I think that's what she said".

"**Skerries**? Did you say **Skerries**?"

"Yes. Why, what of it? Does it mean something to you?"

"Well, of course, and it should do to you too; Skerries House. Surely you remember, Mary?  
"Remember what?"

"Skerries House. We went there once, years ago now of course, when we were all children, when we were over here in Ireland. Granny made such a fuss at the time – about the stupidity of Irish servants. We were staying with the Tremaynes at Curraghmore – the house Sybil mentioned at tea, the one that was burnt down".

"And what does that have to do with Skerries House?"

"I'm coming to that. We went over to Skerries, for afternoon tea, from Curraghmore, a whole party of us, in several carriages; the Tremaynes, Papa, Mama, you, me, and Sybil - although I don't suppose she will remember. In fact, I daresay she's forgotten all about it. After all, she was very young at the time. Do you think we should remind her?"

Mary shook her head.

"Best not to. Especially now; with what's happened to Curraghmore. Sometimes it doesn't do to dwell too much on the past. And, given what Granny had to say about the shortcomings of Irish servants, we don't want to run the risk of upsetting darling Tom!"

"Do you remember the house?"

"Skerries? No, I don't think so"  
"Oh, Mary, you must do; on the coast, overlooking the sea".

Mary nodded slowly, then more enthusiastically as memory stirred within her yet again

"Of course... how silly of me. Yes. Why, yes, I do. There was a bay..."  
"Thank goodness. I thought my memory was playing tricks!" exclaimed Edith.

"Down below the house!" said Mary, staring into the middle distance, remembering back. "It was frightfully hot, as I recall; someone suggested, I think it was Mama, that we all troop down to the beach. I suppose it must have been the very first time Sybil ever really saw the sea".

"We took her paddling in the water's edge".

"That's right, we did".

"And Granny made such a fuss about the three of us taking off our shoes and socks and rolling up our dresses!"  
"Yes, she was very sniffy about it, said it was unbecoming for young ladies to do such a thing!"

"And, do you remember, what Sybil said when saw the sunlight sparkling on the sea. She said it looked like it was made of silver!"

"Yes. I'd forgotten about that. Sybil's silver sea!" exclaimed Mary enthusiastically.

For one brief moment, all past quarrels temporarily laid aside, if not forgotten, their eyes bright and shining, both Mary and Edith smiled fondly at each another with their shared memory of a carefree, happy childhood.

"Then, later, after we'd had tea, while we the rest of us were playing croquet up by the house, Sybil wandered off, didn't she?" asked Edith.

"That's right, she did! Why, she was a handful even then!" said Mary grinning.

"I remember Papa and Mama were dreadfully upset at the time" said Edith soberly.

Mary nodded her agreement.

"Yes, well so they would be. There was an awful hullaballoo when we found Sybil had disappeared. No-one knew where she had gone; no-one could remember when they had last seen her. Mama was terrified that she'd gone back down to the beach on her own. So, they organised a search along the shore, and when they still couldn't find her, they began searching both the house and grounds. They found her eventually, of course, in the stable yard of all places, trying to help some young boy, an orphan relative of the family I think he was ... who'd been hurt in a fight".

_She had been looking for the narrow path which led down to the beach, but, having taken a wrong turning, it was as she wandered into the stable yard that she first saw him. He was lying where he had been flung, battered, bruised, and winded, on his back, atop a pile of dirty, soiled straw. She knew enough to know that the filthy straw constituted the sweepings from the stables. After all, even though she was too young to ride, her parents had horses back at the big house called Downton and, even though her governess had done her very best to hide such things from her, she knew all about the nasty, smelly stuff that, from time to time horses dropped onto the ground from out of their rear ends. She walked purposefully over to where the boy lay, knelt down beside him, reached forward, and gently smoothed back his hair from out of his eyes. They were the deepest shade of blue she had ever seen._

_The boy looked up, and, through a mist of pain and tears from the beating he had received, he saw a pretty little girl with long dark hair kneeling beside him on the cobbles, looking down at him through blue grey eyes. He wasn't certain how old she was, only that she was very young._

"_You look a mess" said the little girl in the most matter-of-fact of tones, wrinkling her nose at the smell of manure._

"_Don't I just" he said with a lop-sided grin._

_The little girl smiled back._

_Then, reaching forward again, she helped him to sit up. That done, she continued to kneel beside him on the cobbles, dabbing gently at the cuts to his face with her white hand-kerchief_ _soaked in cold water from the nearby water trough._

"_What's your name?" she asked at length, when thanks largely to her he looked rather more presentable than when she had first laid eyes upon him._

"_I'm Tom"._

"_What's your name?" _

"_I'm Sybil". _

_As if to confirm this, now, from beyond the buildings surrounding the stable yard there arose a frightened babble of voices, the sound growing in intensity, of people all calling, all shouting the same name over and over again._

"_**Sybil! Sybil! Sybil!**__" _

"Yes, Sybil always was one for finding waifs and strays" said Mary glancing towards the door of their sitting room. She smiled.

Edith nodded.

"You know Mary, despite what you said a while ago, it seems some things **never** change!"

"No, I suppose they don't" said Mary. "I wonder ..."  
"Wonder what?" asked Edith.

"Whatever became of that young boy".


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter Forty Four

Penny To Cross The Liffey

In the warm glow of the evening sunshine, chatting amiably, the four of them were now strolling along the north side of St. Stephen's Green. For the time being at least, if only for the present, all thought of what had happened to them at the Shelbourne but a matter of hours before was laid aside. Tom and Sybil were arm in arm, with Mary and Edith following close behind, all keeping to a deliberately slow pace, very mindful about what the doctor had said about Tom not exerting himself unduly.

"Do you really mean it? You'll actually do it?" asked Sybil with a grin, casting a backwards glance over her shoulder, unable to conceal her incredulity at what Mary had just said.

"Darling, why of course I do; whatever made you think I meant otherwise?" said Mary with a laugh.

"Well, it's just that I never ever thought I'd see you, of all people, riding on a public tram!"

"Neither did I!" exclaimed Edith.

"Then, perhaps neither of you two know me as well as you seem to think you do!" laughed Mary mischievously.

"Obviously not!" said Edith with a grin. "But then I suppose that's true of all of us. After all, do **any** of us really know each other the way we think we do?"

At that, Sybil turned her head, gave Edith a thoughtful stare. No, thought Sybil, we don't, given what I...

Tom's voice broke into her reverie. The moment passed.

"Love, shouldn't you wait and see if Mary makes good on her promise first?" chuckled Tom turning to wink broadly at Sybil's eldest sister.

"Whatever happened to my oh-so gallant future brother-in-law?" asked Mary with feigned concern and a pointed raise of an eyebrow. "May I remind you, Mr. Branson, that a gentleman never questions the word of a lady" she said playfully, before prodding Tom very gently in the back in a most unladylike fashion, and breaking into a broad smile.

"Ouch! That hurt! See, that Syb? The British aristocracy continuing with their oppression of the Irish poor; and me a much injured man!" Tom turned his head and grinned at both Mary and Edith. "But in case you hadn't realised, Mary, your gallant future brother-in-law is still here, right in front of you. Only I'm really just an ignorant Irishman" said Tom with another grin.

"I don't believe that for a moment!" said Mary teasingly.

"Neither do I" retorted Sybil equally mischievously. "Tom's an Irishman all right, through and through, but he's certainly not ignorant, far from it; in fact, quite the reverse!"

"Why, thank you for that ringing endorsement, milady", said Tom with a mocking, slight inclination of his head. "You must want something, love, to be so free with your compliments". He chuckled, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Why ... only to marry you on Saturday!" laughed Sybil leaning in for a quick kiss. Always ready to oblige her, Tom bent his head towards hers, their lips meeting chastely.

"Did I ever tell you that I love you, Sybil Crawley?" asked Tom, gazing down at her, as once again blue eyes met blue grey.

Sybil grinned, contrived to look pensive. She paused for suitable effect, before giving him her answer.

"No, I don't think so" she said. "At least not in the last half hour!"

"Well, then. I do!" laughed Tom. He winced slightly, as in bending towards her, his bruises made their presence felt yet again.

"Now, you remember what the doctor said Tom" giggled Sybil. "No undue physical exertion – at least for the next few days!"

Tom looked mournful.

"But, we're getting married on Saturday!" he groaned.

"Well, perhaps you should have thought about that before taking on half the Dublin police force!" said Sybil archly.

Tom rolled his eyes and growled softly.

"You mean... we won't be able to ..."

Sybil grinned, shook her head expressively.

"No, sadly not; remember what the doctor told you, Tom. No undue **physical** exertion ... of **any** kind!"

"But surely he didn't mean that we don't ..." whimpered Tom.

"Sorry, Tom, but yes he did. I even took the precaution of asking him all about it".

"**You mean, you asked the doctor if we could**..." Tom's voice rose unintentionally. He sounded aghast.

"Why, I've shocked you Mr. Branson!" Then, seeing Tom's mournful expression, Sybil found she could keep up her pretence no longer.

"No, not really". Sybil grinned broadly up at him.

"Why, you little minx" hissed Tom. "Sybil, you have no idea what you do to me. If only we were on our own, I ..."

He stopped what he was saying, blushed a furious red, suddenly all too conscious of Mary and Edith following close behind them, hanging on to their every word, but it was already too late. Tom grinned sheepishly.

"Honestly, you two are absolutely incorrigible!" exclaimed Mary with feigned exasperation. Before today's most singular events, her remark might have been taken to be censorious, disapproving, but now no longer.

"So where do we board the tram then" asked Edith scarcely able to hide her own excitement, but equally glad to be able to change the subject to something rather more suited to an evening stroll along the pavement in earshot of all and sundry.

"The stop's over there, Edith. Just along the street" said Tom, pointing towards a sign on the edge of the pavement by which a group of people, of both men and women, were standing waiting. "By the way, did you know that here in Dublin, and elsewhere too, during the war, women were employed as conductresses on the trams?"

"So, I read in the papers at the time. That happened in York too. When I mentioned it to Papa, he nearly had a fit. I think he imagined me running off to be a conductress on the trams there, while Sybil trained as a nurse! Mind you, I'd have been no good at it what with all those fares. After all, I've never really had much of a head for figures. In fact, come to think of it, I'd much rather drive one. Do you know if they're easy to drive, Tom?"

"I'm not sure, Edith. I've never tried myself. But since you managed to learn how to drive the Renault back at Downton very quickly; not to mention a Fordson tractor".

"That's only because you were such a good teacher, Tom!" laughed Edith.

Tom grinned broadly back at her over his shoulder.

"My pleasure! Mind you, I'm sure you'd have no problem with learning how to drive a tram, Edith. After all, they run on rails, so you can't go that far wrong! The tram company's Head Office is over on Upper Sackville Street. Before you leave Dublin, perhaps you ought to pay them a visit, Edith; see if they have any vacancies. We could then go into business together. Crawley and Branson Transport Ltd. What about it?" Tom chuckled gently.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Tom. Next, she'll want to drive the Orient Express! Don't encourage her, please". Mary rolled her eyes in mock horror.

"Why stick with staying on the ground, Edith? Ever thought of learning how to fly?" asked Tom with another mischievous grin. "You could be the very next Harriet Quimby!"

"Who?" asked Mary.

"Don't even ask him!" said Sybil with a giggle.

"No need to" said Edith. "I know who she was. She was an American; the first woman pilot to fly across the English Channel ... in 1912".

"How ever do you know that?" asked Mary genuinely amazed, marvelling at her younger sister's sudden store of unexpected knowledge.

"Oh, I like to keep myself informed" said Edith assuming a slightly superior air. "Actually, Mary, I read about her in one of Mama's old magazines. Miss Quimby's flight across the Channel took place just the day after the Titanic sank, so there wasn't much about it in the newspapers at the time".

"Neither here, nor in America" said Tom ruefully. "She was also very fine journalist too ...worked for Leslie's Illustrated Weekly, in New York. She travelled all over Europe and Central America, as a photographer. She also learnt how to drive too, Edith. Terrible tragedy, what then happened".

"Yes, it was" said Edith, her voice tinged with obvious regret.

"Which was what, exactly?" asked Sybil mystified. She and Mary exchanged knowing glances of mutual incredulity, while Edith and Tom continued with their conversation about Miss Quimby.

"She died in a flying accident. In America, shortly after her flight across the Channel" said Edith. "Near Boston, wasn't it, Tom?"

Tom nodded his assent.

"Yes, terrible shame that".

By now they had reached the tram stop on St. Stephen's Green and joined those waiting for the number 15 service to run the comparatively short distance by way of Dawson Street, Nassau Street, Westmoreland Street, thence across the O'Connell Bridge and so onto Nelson's Pillar down on Sackville Street.

"Here it comes now" said Tom nodding his head as the green and white open topped tramcar hove into view and slowed to a stop in front of them at the stand.

"How much does it cost?" asked Edith. "Is it frightfully expensive?"

"For some, yes it is" said Tom. "There are always complaints about the price of the fares. But it will cost us a 1d. each down to the Pillar and then, assuming you don't mind riding back on it to the hotel, a further 1d. each for the two of you for the return journey".

Sybil stepped swiftly aboard the low wooden platform at the rear of the tram, followed in quick succession by Edith, then Mary, with Tom slowly bringing up the rear.

"Up top?" called Sybil cheerily over shoulder.

Tom nodded.

"Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound" said he, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth. It really was utterly ridiculous. Here he was, an Irish republican, in the heart of Dublin, with Ireland on the verge of fighting a war with the British, acting as nursemaid to the three daughters of the earl and countess of Grantham.

"Now Tom, mind you take the stairs **slowly**" admonished Sybil.

Followed by her two sisters, and thereafter by Tom, Sybil made her way up the narrow winding staircase and came out into the sunshine on the open top deck of the tram. Despite the fine weather, at this hour, perhaps on account of what had happened earlier in this part of the city, there were only a handful of other passengers, so they easily found four places together at the front. A moment later, just as they were sitting down on the wooden slatted seats, and with a slight jolt, the tram set off along St. Stephen's Green before turning sharp right onto Dawson Street.

"I'll pay" for all of us" said Mary. She proffered a sovereign from her purse to the conductor, who looked at her askance. "Is there a problem?" she asked, genuinely puzzled by the man's seeming reluctance to take the coin from her.

"Aint yous got anything' smaller?" asked the young conductor shaking his head in annoyance, muttering something under his breath about the "feckin' English". At that, Mary coloured, was obviously about to make a pithy retort, when Tom came to her rescue and stepped manfully into the breach.

"May I?" he asked of her politely. Mary nodded. Then, taking Mary's open purse from her, Tom extracted a silver sixpence and handed it over to the conductor who, still quietly cursing under his breath, issued them with their tickets and, then shaking his head, handed Tom 2d. by way of change, who glared at the young conductor.

"Imigh leat, gread leat" said Tom coldly. Even if Sybil and her sisters did not understand Gaelic, Tom's stony expression said it all.

The young lad coloured, then shamefaced, turned on his heel, made his way back along the upper deck, and then disappeared downstairs to the lower saloon.

"He's damned lucky I don't make a complaint" said Tom through gritted teeth. "There's no excuse for that kind of rudeness".

"Whatever did you say to him?" whispered Mary.

"Don't ask" said Tom. "I wasn't very polite either. Here, Mary, these are what you will need for your return journey back up here". So saying, he handed the two pennies over to Mary.

"Thank you, Tom. Whatever would I, would any of us, do without you?" laughed Mary.

"Think nothing of it" said Tom with a grin.

"Look, that's the Royal Hibernian Hotel" said Sybil "The restaurant there is said to be very fine. Not that we've ever eaten there. It's a bit too expensive for the likes of Tom and me! Mind you, I suppose if things become too unbearable at the Shelbourne, you two could always stay at the Royal Hibernian instead!"

"And that building there, that's the Mansion House" explained Tom. "It's where the Dáil met in January of this year to proclaim our independence" he added quietly, his eyes glistening.

The pride in his voice, at this particular achievement on the part of his own fellow countrymen, was unmistakeable, so much so that Sybil squeezed Tom's hand tightly by way of mutual support.

And, thereafter, with Tom and Sybil continuing happily to point out all manner of local landmarks to both Mary and Edith, the Number 15 tram rattled merrily along its way, bound for Nelson's Pillar.


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter Forty Five

God Bless You

Having trundled over the River Liffey by way of the O'Connell Bridge, shortly thereafter the Number 15 tram slowed and came to a complete and final stop close to the massive granite base of Nelson's Pillar. Here, the impertinent young conductor who had been so rude to Mary when she tried to pay for their fares now yelled "All Change".

Along with the rest of the passengers on the upper deck, the four of them, Tom leading, carefully descended the curving, narrow stairs to the lower saloon of the tramcar. Notwithstanding his own injuries and the fact that he was starting to feel very tired indeed, with impeccably good manners, Tom helped each of the Crawley girls one at a time, down onto the street, earning heartfelt thanks and radiant smiles from all three of them. Although the ornate street lamps were already beginning to be lit, here on Sackville Street, in the very heart of Dublin, in the warm afterglow of a summer's evening, the broad pavements were still thronged with pedestrians, the street with all manner of vehicles.

After what had happened on the upper deck of the tram, given the comparative lateness of the hour, so as to avoid any chance of further unpleasantness, and also so as to set Sybil's own mind at rest too, Tom suggested that it would perhaps be better if Mary and Edith took a motor cab back to the Shelbourne. Initially Mary demurred, having, she said, really enjoyed her trip on the tram down to the Pillar. However, eventually, Tom won her round to his way of thinking; said, following entreaties from both Edith and from Sybil, that she could see the sense in what he proposed. Tom nodded, and then turned away intending to set off and find them both a cab. But, as he did so, Mary caught him gently by the shoulder.

"Tom, wait a moment, please" she implored. Guilelessly, her dark brown eyes intently searched his bruised and cut face. Tom paused, and turned to face her. He grinned.

"Milady?" he said, his dark blue eyes alight with mischief, sketching an imaginary salute with his right hand.

"You idiot" she said smiling gently back at him. "That's all done with now, as well you know!"

Tom chuckled. He nodded.

"Yes, I know" he said softly.

Mary quickly slipped off her glove, opened her purse and took out a silver sixpence. "Here" she said; her eyes were like quicksilver, alive in equal measure with both amusement and pleasure. She reached forward and placed the small coin in Tom's palm, closing his fingers upon it within her own.

"Why, whatever for?" asked Tom, now genuinely mystified.

"For luck! And for being my guide to Dublin. What else?" Mary laughed. Then she grew serious; her voice grew ever softer, even tender. "But... for being... for being so much more than that, Tom. For loving Sybil the way you do, for what you did for Edith, for what you did for the both of them today at the hotel, while I..." Mary paused. Her eyes shimmered in the glow of lamplight, grew large and luminous. Tom waited while she recovered herself. Mary nodded gently, thanking him silently for his innate understanding. "...while I was off... sightseeing in the park". She swallowed hard, fought to keep her composure.

Tom smiled.

"But, also, Tom, for what you did for me as well".

"For what **I** did for **you**? How so? But I did nothing" said Tom wonderingly.

"Yes you did Tom, although you may not realise that you did" said Mary softly.

"But even so, surely Mary, I should be thanking **you** for what you did for **me**?"

Mary shook her head, placed her forefinger gently across Tom's lips.

"No, Tom. Helping you at the hotel? That, at least for me, was the easy part. What I mean is for... for saving me... from myself. For making me see that I've been so wrong about you, in fact so very wrong... about so many things. That what really matters in life is not what position a person is born into, but what they are like in here". Mary brought Tom's hand to rest over her heart.

"You understand, don't you?"  
Tom nodded. He knew the nature of her true torment.

"You understand everything" she said softly. "Sybil is so very, very lucky to be marrying you. Whatever comes, be assured you have both my love and support now... and always. I'm so very proud to have you for my brother-in-law. God bless you, darling Tom". At that Mary reached up and gently kissed Tom's cheek.

Tom blushed scarlet, felt his own eyes mist with tears; overcome with embarrassment at the genuine feeling and heartfelt sincerity so clearly evident in the accolade which Mary had just bestowed upon him.

"I suppose, I'd better go and find that cab" he said huskily.

"Yes, I suppose you should" said Mary quietly. "Now where on earth's Sybil?"

At that, she turned away from Tom, not trusting to herself any longer to be able to keep her own emotions firmly in check.

"Ah, there she is" said Mary, catching sight of Sybil standing but a short distance away chatting animatedly with Edith. So saying, Mary turned on her heel and made her way briskly over to join her two sisters.

For a moment, Tom stood watching her slender retreating form. Then, he himself turned, and set off in search of a motor cab to take Mary and Edith back to the battered, bomb damaged splendour of the Shelbourne Hotel.

While Mary and Sybil chatted, Edith walked a short distance away and stood gazing up at the majestic statue of Lord Nelson placed atop the soaring Doric column which formed the greater part of the Pillar; saw the doorway which opened onto the spiral staircase within, and by which access was gained to the narrow, vertigo inducing, viewing platform high above her, and which, in turn, for those able to pay 6d. for the privilege and then be both hale and hearty enough to climb the one hundred and sixty eight steps of the staircase to the very top, afforded them a matchless bird's eye view, north, south, east, and west, across and beyond the sprawling city of Dublin astride the Liffey river.

Then she turned her attention to the inscription at its base:

"**By the blessing of Almighty God To Commemorate the Transcendent Heroic Achievements of the Right Honourable Horatio Lord Viscount Nelson Duke of Bronti in Sicily, Vice-Admiral of the White Squadron of his Majesty's Fleet, Who fell gloriously in the Battle of Cape Trafalgar On the 21****st**** Day of October, 1805..."**

"How utterly sad and wretched" she said softly, stifling a silent sob, unaware that, among the constant crowd of people thronging round the base of the statue, many of them themselves seeking motor cabs and trams, Tom had come to stand quietly beside her. He reached out and placed a comforting arm gently around Edith's shoulders.

"Aye, agreed, but, do you know Edith, although I don't suppose in fact that you do, but I once told Sybil that sometimes awful sacrifices have to be made for a future that's worth having". Tom nodded towards the Portland stone figure atop the column, "Maybe he knew that", he said softly.

"Perhaps. I should like to think that he did" said Edith quietly. At that, she turned to face Tom, reached forward and took both his hands in hers. "Tom, I want to thank you once again for all you did for me earlier today. As Mary said, in all honesty I don't know what I, what any of us, would have done without you today. I mean that; from the bottom of my heart. Really I do".

"Edith..." began Tom. He flushed red to the roots of his hair.

"No, please Tom, let me finish. There's something else too. I want you to know that whatever the future holds for all of us, that from now on, for always, both you and Sybil will have my love, my support, and be in my prayers".

Edith paused, looked up at Tom through glistening eyes. Her voice faltered. Tom smiled, waiting for her to compose herself. She smiled, conveying to him a silent message of heartfelt thanks. "And... and while darling Sybil is incredibly blessed in gaining you as her husband, I'm so incredibly proud to be gaining you as my brother-in-law. God bless you, darling Tom". At that Edith reached up and gently kissed Tom's cheek.

Tom blushed, embarrassed once again, this time by the undoubted fervour and sincerity of the tribute Edith had just paid him.

He nodded.

The dusk drew down about them.

She shivered.

"Come, there's a chill in the air" said Tom in the most prosaic of tones, and at the same time gently offering Edith his arm just as if they were walking into dinner at Downton Abbey, "the cab's waiting".


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter Forty Six

Afterglow

Dusk was already beginning to spread its gentle velvet pall down over the city; stealing softly among the innumerable chimney stacks, domes, spires, and towers, drifting languidly across the slate roof tops, descending over the imposing granite bulk of Dublin Castle unquestionably both the centre and the definitive symbol of the leaden, mailed fist of British rule here in Ireland.

It settled softly over the abundant number of the many other equally fine public buildings in Dublin such as that sheltering the Four Courts topped by its magnificent stone dome on Inns Quay, along with the equally imposing, and likewise domed, Customs House situated on the quay of the same name, lying between the Butt and the Loopline Bridges, and occupying a splendid position overlooking the Liffey. Dusk came to rest too over Leinster House housing the priceless collections of the Irish National Gallery and the Irish National Museum, over the tranquil, collegiate, academic quadrangles of Trinity College on College Green, and the grandeur of the Mansion House on Dawson Street.

It drifted o'er the sea-green dome of the Catholic Pro-Cathedral on Marlborough Street, and the seventeenth century stone tower of the ancient parish church of St. Audoen's down on Cornmarket, indeed over the churches and the chapels of all denominations throughout the city; over hospitals such as the Rotunda, the South Dublin Lying-In on Holles Street, and the Coombe, along with the workhouses at Balrothery and on James' Street, the latter situated close to the St. James' Gate Brewery which belonged to the wealthy Guinness family.

It settled gently over the magnificent red brick Shelbourne Hotel overlooking the landscaped gardens and lakes of St. Stephen's Green, the lakes themselves fed from the waters of the Grand Canal at Portobello; over the luxurious Royal Hibernian Hotel which stood close by not far from the Mansion House on Dawson Street. It drifted down too over the once no less expensive and equally opulent Metropole and Gresham Hotels, both reduced to gaunt blackened ruins, utterly destroyed in the ultimately abortive Easter Rising of some three years earlier.

It descended quietly over the tree-lined avenues and the verdant greenery found within the walled enclosure of Phoenix Park and over the Botanic Gardens in Glasnevin filled with thousands of flowers, plants, and trees and which, in magnificence, was said to rival Kew Gardens in London across the Irish Sea.

It crept down all but imperceptibly through the wide streets, stealing also into the narrow alleys and courts, veiling from sight both the splendour and the squalor which was Dublin, spreading its silent wings through the elegant Georgian squares lying south of the Liffey such as Fitzwilliam and Merrion with their terraces of fine brick town houses, both still the preserve of the wealthy and the gentry; reflecting in the glass of their fanlights and many paned sash windows the very last golden rays of the evening sun. Dusk came to rest as well over the fashionable and stylish cafés and restaurants like Bewleys on Westmoreland Street and over the expensive shops lining Grafton Street.

It settled also over smaller houses too - in Blackrock, Glasthule, Kingstown and Rathmines, including, in Clontarf, a neat, white washed, two-storey, slate roofed villa, one of a pair, and which faced the open sea. It drifted down into the poorer suburbs of Pembroke and Ringsend, and thence among less imposing dwellings still, the eating houses, the public houses like Davy Byrne's on Duke Street or that owned by John Kehoe on nearby South Anne Street, came to rest midst the squalid tenements of Henrietta Street, Mountjoy Square, and Parnell Street, drifted past the drab windows of Joseph Doyle's pawn shop on Buckingham Street where those in immediate need resorted to pawning their boots, their clothing, and their work-tools, thus worsening the grinding cycle of poverty here in the second city of the far flung British Empire.

It drifted through the stone balustrades of the O'Connell Bridge, down over the ships and vessels and other craft moored and riding gently at anchor alongside the many quays lining both banks of the Liffey. Midst the numerous wharves and warehouses, ghostly, wraithlike coils of vapid mist rose languidly from off the gently murmuring waters of the Liffey, while across the city the lamps were being lit, among the public rooms and the bedrooms of hotels and gin shops, on railway station platforms and in waiting rooms at Westland Row, in all manner of domestic properties, and along the usually, but for the lateness of the hour, bustling main thoroughfares of the city.

Here on Sackville Street, in the last few minutes, cast by the towering column of Nelson's Pillar and the blackened, looted, shattered buildings, mute, silent witnesses to the failed Easter Rising of three years before, the shadows had deepened perceptibly. And yet, as the dusk drew ever down, and the shadows lengthened, there was still no sign of Tom.

But a short while ago, while he and Edith had both stood chatting animatedly together close to the enormous granite bulk of Nelson's Pillar, likewise and but a short distance away, over on the corner of Henry Street, next to the bullet scarred, gaunt, smoke-blackened façade of what, until 1916, had been the imposing front entrance of grand building housing Dublin's General Post Office, Sybil stood talking to Mary.

Like Edith, Mary had experienced a profound shock on seeing the terrible damage which had been inflicted here, in the very heart of the city, by the artillery of the British Army during the failed Rising. Mary's incredulity had increased when Sybil had explained pithily and in some detail that, irrespective of the rights and wrongs of what had happened here in Dublin the majority of the casualties in the Rising had been innocent civilians caught up in the crossfire between the British Army and the republicans. This caused Mary to remark that that was something which had been singularly lacking in the reports of the matter in the British press at the time; something of which she was certain Papa was ignorant even now.

It was just as Sybil was ascertaining from Mary that she did indeed know precisely the nature of the directions which had to be given to the chauffeur from the Shelbourne Hotel who was to drive both her and Edith out to Clontarf on Saturday morning that Tom had dutifully escorted Edith over to where Sybil and Mary were standing close to the ruins of the General Post Office.

In the fading warmth of the summer's evening, standing there on the edge of the pavement, all four of them had continued to chat happily, had been on the point of taking their affectionate goodbyes of each another, when, suddenly, before they had the chance to do so, with Tom about to hail a motor cab for Edith and Mary, and for he and Sybil to board the Number 31 tram for their journey out to Clontarf, Tom had asked suddenly if all three of them would mind waiting where they were for just a moment or two. He winked broadly at Sybil, gave all three of them a cheeky grin, adding that he would be gone only but a short while.

Mystified, nevertheless they had readily agreed to his request, with Mary silently giving Tom full marks for his unfailing courtesy and good manners towards them all. On the corner of Henry Street, he had paused; half turned, smiled, and then raised his hand in salutation. And then, with another lopsided grin and a cheery wave he was gone.

"Wait for me" he had called to Sybil.

"Of course. What else have I to do?" she called in reply. She smiled. Tom nodded, raised his hand again; was gone.

Thereafter, they had continued to chat, but gradually, with every passing minute, and with still no sign of Tom, their conversation grew stilted, languished, all of them, had they but known it, wondering the very same thought: what on earth could possibly have become of Tom.

And now, with no immediate sign of him, growing ever more anxious, Sybil cast uneasily about her, seeking but the slightest glimpse of Tom midst the ever changing, ever shifting kaleidoscope of puttering motor cabs, clanging trams, and myriad swarms of all manner and of all classes of people some hurrying hither and thither, others sauntering at their leisure along Sackville Street, or else congregating over by the enormous granite base of the Pillar.

"Where on earth can Tom have gone?" asked Sybil with obvious and rising trepidation.

"I know he didn't say where he was going, but, I'm sure he's just fine, Sybil. Don't worry" said Edith. She patted Sybil's arm gently in a genuine, heartfelt attempt at re-assurance.

"Darling, of course he will be" said Mary. "You'll see, Sybil. He'll be back here directly. I'm sure of it".

Sybil nodded her thanks mutely to both of them, but of Tom, there was still no sign.

None whatever.


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter Forty Seven

Chameleon

A moment later and Sybil's hand suddenly flew in earnest consternation to her throat.

"Why Sybil darling, whatever is it?" asked Mary genuinely concerned. She and Edith half turned and in the fading evening light followed the direction of their sister's gaze to see walking towards them, in the unexpected company of an army captain and two soldiers, a fair haired young man wearing a somewhat creased and ill fitting blue suit. On catching sight of Tom, Sybil let out a cry that must have been audible, if not in Kingstown, then certainly down the entire length of Sackville Street as far as the O'Connell Bridge.

"**Tom! **Oh, thank God!" As the men reached them, ignoring the presence of the British officer and the two soldiers, Sybil's arms went up around Tom's neck enfolding him to her in a fierce and tight embrace, cupping his face in her hands, smothering it with kisses, which Tom returned with an equal passion.

"Where... on... earth... have... you... been?" Sybil continued to kiss him, searching his well-loved face.

"Sorry love. I was ... unavoidably detained". Tom smiled, gave her his endearing lop-sided grin

"Detained? Why, whatever do you mean?" asked Sybil. She drew back from him, continuing to search his face.

"I..." Tom got no further with his explanation.

"Please accept my heartfelt apologies Lady Sybil. **Mr**. Branson's delay in returning here to you all is entirely my own fault. You see, it ..." began the British officer. He stood to one side of the couple, his face lost in the deep shadows cast by the light of the street lamp just beyond them; his very presence, there on the pavement next to them, seeming to go entirely unnoticed by both Sybil and Tom.

Nor did Sybil express any surprise as to how it was that the captain came to know her name, assuming, presumably, that Tom must have told him who it was who would be anxiously awaiting his return from wherever it was he had been. The officer coloured, evidently now extremely uncomfortable and much embarrassed to be witness to such a public display of heartfelt and deeply loving affection, here on a crowded street in the very heart of Dublin. Seeing that his attempt to explain Tom's disappearance went unheeded, unheard, he paused; stopped what he was trying to say.

He tried again.

"Unfortunately Lady Sybil, you see, your husband, he was witness to ..."

"Why, Captain Stathum!" broke in Mary now recognising the officer. Hearing his name, he moved into the light of the street lamp to stand before her.

"Lady Mary Crawley! We meet again" exclaimed Miles. He smiled and saluted smartly, his manner towards her both warm and friendly; the pleasure in his voice unmistakable. "And Lady Sybil too". He nodded faintly in the direction of both Sybil and Tom. Miles's smile receded. The inflection in his voice took on an entirely different, unflattering tone; became clipped and faintly sardonic. Now, seemingly for the first time hearing him utter her name, Sybil turned her head and glanced briefly at the officer. Recognising him, she smiled wanly, inclined her head the merest degree. Equally curtly, Miles nodded, but forbore to salute her; something which, if unobserved by Sybil herself, preoccupied as she was with Tom, did not go unnoticed by Mary.

"Well, so we all meet again". Now ignoring Sybil completely, Miles turned back to Mary. "Lady Mary, I trust you have now recovered ... from what ... happened earlier today over at the Shelbourne Hotel?" he enquired politely.

Mary nodded.

"Yes, indeed, Captain Stathum. Thank you. I explained to both my sisters earlier, just how gallant and how helpful you had been".

Miles smiled.

And, I suppose, he thought, the mousey, unobtrusive little creature keeping herself to herself in the middle there must be the other of Lord Grantham's three daughters. What on earth **was** her name again? Fortunately for Miles, without further ado, it was Mary herself who unbidden, and completely unwittingly remedied the deficiency in his memory.

"Captain Stathum, may I introduce my younger sister, Lady Edith Crawley".

"Ah, Lady **Edith**. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance once again". Miles saluted; played his part to perfection. "Perhaps you may remember that we met first, several years ago, at your aunt, Lady Rosamund Painswick's home up in London?"

Edith nodded. She smiled softly at him with downcast eyes.

"Yes Captain Stathum, so my sister Lady Mary told me" said Edith airily, her thoughts drifting back surprisingly not her aunt's house in London, but to the scene played out in the sitting room of her and Mary's suite back at the Shelbourne Hotel earlier that same evening.

"_It was an absolute stroke of good luck ..." _Mary had been commenting upon running across Captain Miles Stathum, explaining how he had helped her and a young boy called Tommy whom she'd befriended pass through the army cordon outside the hotel. Mary added that Stathum had said he had met up with both Sybil and Tom here in Dublin but a few days ago_. _

"_Indeed he did". _Tom had slowly nodded his assent.

"_Just exactly what did he tell you ... I mean exactly, what did he say, about how we all came to meet up with each other?" _hadasked Sybil chewing her lip nervously.

"_Darling, he didn't really say. Why, whatever is the matter?"_

"_Here, let me" _said Tom seeing Sybil's obvious distress._ "A couple of days ago, I borrowed a motor off someone at the paper. That evening, we went out for a spin over to Howth; it's over on the coast. On our return journey, we became caught up in... an ugly incident. A British army convoy was ambushed on the road by members of the Irish Republican Army". _Haltingly, slowly, Sybil then had then set about explaining what had happened to the young boy out at the farm, how he had been killed, how thereafter she had done her very best to help with the injured on both sides.

"_And both of you were caught up in all of that? How utterly dreadful" _said Edith, obviously much moved by what both Sybil and Tom had just related. She had sounded utterly appalled by what they both had to tell.

"_Naturally, I'm very sorry to hear about the young boy. After all, who wouldn't be, but as for helping those who ambushed you, how very ecumenical of you, Sybil. Somehow, I doubt Papa would understand"_ Mary had said with an expressive raise of her eyebrows.

"_There was nothing ecumenical about it at all", _had snapped Sybil._ "It's my duty. After all, I'm a nurse," _Her voice had cracked with emotion, and tears had begun to spill unchecked and unheeded down her cheeks.In an instant, Tom had been there by her side, kneeling on the floor, cradling her tightly in his arms.

"_Hush now_ _a chailín mo chroí"_hadsoothed Tom gently.

"_Darling, I didn't mean..." _had begun Mary softly.

"_It's all right, Mary, I know you didn't". "But what with that, and now all this, and especially with what happened to darling Tom today, I suppose, I'm just tired and over wrought" _had sobbed Sybil.

"_So what about the young boy you helped today?" _Tom had asked, desperately trying to change the subject to something rather more cheerful_. "You said he found his Ma?"  
"Oh yes indeed!"_

"_And not from Dublin I think you said?"_

"_No. I rather gathered he was staying with some cousins. Then, when I met his mother, she said they came from down near Cork. There was mention of an estate called Sk ..." _Mary had shaken her head._ "No, it's gone". _A moment later she had said emphatically: _"__**Skerries**__. I think that was the name". _

"_**What**__ ... What did you just say_?" Tom had asked, obviously somewhat more forcefully than he intended. The change in his tone did not go unnoticed, at least not by Edith.

"_Skerries. That's what she called it" _had continued Mary, seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension which had arisen in Tom's hitherto lilting, placid voice.

"_**Skerries**__? Are you sure that's what the woman said?"_

"_Yes. At least I think so ... where her husband had a farm tenancy, although to be honest, Tom, darling, at the time, I wasn't paying that much attention to what the mother was saying. After all, what mattered most was that she'd found her son again. You'll forgive me, when I tell you that I was, understandably, rather more concerned with what had become of all of you. Why, does the name mean something to you?"_

"_I've heard of it" _Tom had said equivocally. His eyes had met Sybil's over the rim of the bowl of warm water which she was using to clean the cuts to his face. Almost imperceptibly, Tom had shaken his head. Gently, Sybil had nodded her acquiescence; she had understood his unspoken warning. Now was not the time to tell either Mary or Edith about Skerries House; in fact, the least said about it the better, for all of them; most of all, Tom.

But Tom and Sybil's unspoken understanding had not gone unobserved.

To the casual observer, it might not be thought that Lady Edith Crawley shared anything in common with perhaps that most enigmatic of all lizards; the chameleon. Nor that she and the late Julius Caesar shared very much in common either. But, it was no less a personage than William Shakespeare who had considered the latter to be a great observer.

Surprisingly, and perhaps curious to relate, an existence revolving round a lifetime of unobtrusive self denial can have its own especial advantages, particularly when arising from playing continual second fiddle to the unpredictable moods, whims, and wiles of a beautiful, imperious elder sister and then thereafter, and somewhat later, taking second place yet again, this time to the equally unpredictable capricious needs and wants of a prettier, more romantically inclined younger sibling.

As a result of a life spent, metaphorically at least, living in the shadows of both Mary and Sybil, Edith had perfected the art of acutely observing the gestures and mannerisms of those about her, family, friends, and relations, and without herself being observed; of blending chameleon like into her immediate surroundings, to the extent whereby her very presence at a social gathering, a ball, a dinner, a garden party, let alone at breakfast back at Downton, was often singularly ignored, overlooked; as fortuitously was now the case, in the peace and quiet of a hotel sitting room in Dublin across the road from the tranquility of St. Stephen's Green. As indeed it had been too on another long gone June evening here in Ireland.

For, if Sybil had forgotten her childhood visit to Skerries House down near Cork, Edith had not. On that occasion unlike Mary, who had considered it beneath her dignity to do so, Edith had joined the others in their frantic search for Sybil. And Edith herself had been present there in the stable yard at Skerries when, by the flickering light of lanterns Sybil was found nursing - there was no other word for it - the injured boy.

And now, all these years later, in the soft glow of lamplight, here in their sitting room at the Shelbourne Hotel, as Edith watched Sybil caring so solicitously for Tom, for some unfathomable reason, she found herself slipping back in time to that self same evening; unfathomable that was until her eyes lighted on Tom's face. Edith felt her heart lurch. She herself had said that some things never change. For her part, Mary had asked of Edith but a short while ago in her hotel bedroom, what had become of the young boy in the stable yard.

The answer, if Mary cared to look for it, was there staring her in the face.


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter Forty Eight

A Pair Of Blue Eyes

Seated side by side on the cracked brown leather seat in the rear of the growling motor cab on their somewhat later than anticipated journey back to the Shelbourne Hotel on St. Stephen's Green, if Mary thought Edith to be uncharacteristically quiet, then she made no mention of it. In fact, to be truthful, she said nothing whatsoever to her younger sister.

It was no secret among their immediate family that despite, or perhaps because of, being sisters so close in age, neither Mary, nor Edith, liked each other that much; that there was certainly no real love lost between them. These days, the very best that could be said of their relationship was that since the war had ended, in the spirit of the times, Mary and Edith, metaphorically speaking, had signed their own particular Armistice; reached a tolerable modus vivendi for the sake of close family members - granny, Papa, Mama, and Sybil - taking pains also to ensure that they presented a united front to outsiders, and were equally careful, for the sake of harmony, to do their very best to maintain a wary tolerance of each other's continued existence, but nothing more than that.

For her part, despite all that had happened to them today, Edith took no notice of Mary either; nor did she herself attempt to engage her elder sister in any kind of conversation. Lost in her own thoughts, Edith gazed silently out through the window of the chugging motor cab. With unseeing eyes she saw the ornate lamps gracing the balustrades of the O'Connell Bridge, the imposing granite façade of Trinity College, the ever present blur of dark clad pedestrians and khaki clad British soldiers on the pavements of Dublin, the imposing front of the Mansion House which Tom had pointed out earlier to them from the upper deck of the tram, and the brightly lit shop fronts lining Dawson Street, before the motor cab swung onto the north side of St. Stephen's Green and drew gently to a stand outside the shattered grandeur of the ground floor of the magnificent red brick Shelbourne Hotel.

Was it possible that she could be mistaken?

Seated there in the darkness in the rear of the cab on their return journey to the hotel, after her moment of seemingly blinding revelation which had happened when she had been observing Sybil caring so tenderly for Tom, dressing his cuts and bruises so solicitously, back in the sitting room of her and Mary's suite, Edith now began to have serious doubts about what she had seen.

After all, was it really likely to be the case that darling Tom and the beaten, bloodied young boy she had glimpsed but briefly all those years ago lying on the cobbled yard of the stable yard at Skerries House were one and the same? Now that she thought more about it, Edith seemed to recall someone saying at the time that the boy was a distant relative of the family, but if so he had not been introduced to them, nor had appeared at tea or at dinner whilst they had been there. So that in itself seemed unlikely. Edith herself knew nothing of the family who then owned the house, for all she knew, they still did. But of course … She smiled inwardly to herself. She knew someone who undoubtedly would: granny. And she would ask her about that directly when both she and Mary returned to England after Tom and Sybil's wedding.

Thinking back again to what she herself had seen in the stable yard at Skerries, Edith could vividly remember the injured boy impatiently pushing back his mop of tousled blond hair from off his forehead just as darling Tom had done but a few hours ago, lying on the settee in their sitting room in the Shelbourne Hotel. Edith had also been struck by the boy's vivid blue eyes, something which he also undoubtedly shared with dearest Tom. And when darling little Sybil had said to the lad in the stable yard that he looked a mess, what was it the boy had said by way of reply?

"_Don't I just" _he answered with a lop-sided grin. And what was it Sybil had said to Tom earlier – that he looked a mess. And what had Tom replied?

"_Don't I just" _he had answered and ... with the very same endearing lop-sided grin.

But was that enough? Or was she herself just being whimsical?

After all, from time to time, in the British newspapers, there were reports that one or other of the five children of the late Tsar Nicholas II and his wife the Tsarina Alexandra had somehow contrived to escape the bloody hands of their murderers and so survive the massacre of the Imperial Family at Ekaterinburg in July 1918. Papa had scoffed indignantly at the reports, and to Edith herself they sounded too fanciful for words, even if in her heart she wished the fate of those five innocent children to have been anything otherwise than what it had undoubtedly been.

Surely, if she was right in her surmise, then given how close Sybil and Tom undoubtedly were, then darling Sybil would have realised something too. But, that apparently was not the case. And yet for all her nagging doubts, Edith knew she was right. So, what should she do? She had resolved already to say nothing to Sybil. So, should she vouchsafe her suspicions to Mary? Edith glanced briefly over at her silent elder sister. One look at Mary's imperious, regal profile in the darkened interior of the motor cab was enough to deter Edith from following that particular course of action. Mary would, thought Edith, scoff contemptuously at her notions, and dismiss them as utterly fanciful and ridiculous.

But for all that …

Once they had descended from the motor cab, leaving the liveried doorman to pay the driver, if not exactly together, then still side by side, they walked slowly into the brilliantly lit, albeit still wrecked entrance lobby of the Shelbourne Hotel, now slowly returning to some semblance of order. Here Mary announced in a somewhat peremptory tone to Edith that before retiring for the night she wanted to send an urgent telegram to Downton. Both Papa and Mama needed to be told that all of them here in Dublin, including Tom, had survived the explosion uninjured, before any garbled and lurid reports of what had happened here today at the Shelbourne Hotel appeared in the newspapers over in England.

"You go on up Edith. I shan't be very long" said Mary wearily.

Wordlessly, Edith nodded her assent to her elder sister, crossed the entrance lobby, and walked slowly up the grand staircase of the hotel, still deep in thought, passing on her way, on the first floor landing, a German couple who were descending, chatting to each other in their own language. It was that simple coincidence that, thought Edith afterwards, put her in mind of her German governess, Fraulein Schmidt, someone whom, if Edith was scrupulously honest with herself, she had not thought of in years.

In both her childhood, and indeed later in her life, one thing at which Edith excelled over both her sisters was her ability to speak both French and German. For her part, Mary saw no need to learn any foreign language:

"After all darling, anybody who is anybody speaks English".

As for dearest Sybil, she had seemingly never possessed either the necessary mental aptitude or the discipline required when trying to successfully master learning a foreign language. To Sybil whether a noun was masculine or feminine in French, or masculine, feminine, or indeed neuter, in German, was of little or no consequence whatsoever; indeed, to her, a singularly pointless exercise. Losing her patience on a very hot day up in the schoolroom at Downton, Lady Sybil Crawley, aged all of ten years, had also then lost her temper. Echoing, had she but known it, the very words of His Majesty King George V who also struggled with mastering German, exasperated with being continually corrected by their governess, earning herself a rap on the knuckles, Sybil had retorted tartly that:

"Der, die or das Sonne, it really is very hot indeed today Fraulein Schmidt".

Edith smiled fondly at the long forgotten remembrance from a shared childhood.

She would never have described herself as a fanciful person and it was now as she wearily made her way up to bed that Edith recalled minding something Fraulein Schmidt had once said to her, and which now confirmed Edith's latent suspicions regarding dear, darling Tom.

Quoting the words of her own countryman, the philosopher Friedrich Schiller, Fraulein Schmidt had observed:__

"_There is no such thing as chance; and what seems to us mere accident springs from the deepest source of destiny". _

Later, after she had retired for the night, having snuggled down in bed, Edith lay awake for a long while. Through her open window there came to her ears the gentle swish and whisper of the faintest of breezes rustling the leaves of the trees in the park on the opposite side of the road from the hotel. Just before she finally turned out the oil lamp standing on her bedside table, as she drifted somewhere between consciousness and sleep, she again smiled to herself; said softly "I was right".


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter Forty Nine

A Dream Within A Dream

"What are you thinking about, my love?" asked Sybil tenderly, gently ruffling Tom's thick blond hair with her fingers.

"What ... what it was ... that I could ever have done ... to deserve this moment" said Tom after a slight hesitation. He grinned shyly.

"My darling, love is something which we are given for doing nothing" said Sybil softly, kissing him gently on his lips.

"Nothing?" asked Tom quietly. "But surely…"

"Well, all but" said Sybil gently. "Remember how, in Ripon, all those years ago, you told me you loved me. I had, at the time, as I recollect, done nothing, if anything at all, to encourage you in your feelings towards me".  
"That's very true" said Tom ruefully. He felt his eyes moisten with unbidden tears, blinked them back, at the very thought of what might never have been, had he, all those years ago, taken Sybil at her word. He would have been back here in Ireland certainly, but … alone.

"Well, then, my darling" said Sybil. "It's as I just said: love is something which we are given for doing nothing; only after we have been given it do we have to make ourselves worthy of it".

They had been married but scarcely twelve hours previously, had just made love again for the second time that night, and were lying naked, comfortably and closely entwined, snug in each others' arms, face to face, in the double bed in the front bedroom of the small house at Clontarf overlooking the sea; the sound of the waves breaking on the sandy shore below the house clearly audible through the drawn curtains and closed window.

"So" said Tom softly, gazing intently into Sybil's dark blue eyes, playing with a tendril of her dark hair "tell me, my love, what did you like most about today? Apart, that is, of course, from marrying me?"

Tom grinned at his young wife, who smiled back at him, recognising immediately the expression he now wore and the all but imperceptible change to the tone of his lilting, sensuous Irish voice; it was one of utter contentment. Indeed, Tom's self satisfied grin said it all. Sybil, too, was equally well satisfied, but not yet sated. Time, again, she thought, for a little fun.

So, at his heartfelt question, Sybil said nothing, merely tightened the hold of her encircling arms about her husband's neck, and brought her mouth up to meet his in a lingering, passionate kiss. When they had, albeit but only momentarily, satisfied the physical hunger each had of the other, Tom gently broke free of Sybil, rolled contentedly onto his back, linked his fingers together behind his head, nestled comfortably down on his pillows, staring up at the ceiling, waiting anticipatorily, hanging on the nature of her reply, a broadening smile playing around the corners of his delectable mouth.

For her part, Sybil rolled swiftly over onto Tom, straddled his naked body, by placing her knees one on either side of his firm chest and settled herself back on him. Gently, Tom reached up and began to cup and stroke her bare breasts, lightly squeezing her taut nipples between the thumb and forefinger of each of his hands. Despite the undoubted overt sexuality of the moment, the mounting intensity of the physical sensations now beginning to shoot through her body, and the ever growing arousal her husband's caresses were producing within her, for the moment Sybil simply continued to gaze down adoringly at Tom, ever so gently caressing the patch of fine fair hairs nestled in the middle of his bare chest, kneading his nipples with the tips of her fingers. God, how she loved this man.

"Well" said Sybil huskily, as, wrapping her in his strong encircling arms, gently, but ever so insistently, Tom began to pull her in yet closer towards him. Slowly, and with all but imperceptible resistance to the strength of his enfolding arms, thereby subconsciously heightening the intimate nature and eroticism of the moment, Sybil allowed Tom to draw her naked body down upon him.

They were now so close that they were but a whisper apart.

"Where on earth should I begin, my darling?" asked Sybil softly questioningly, almost wonderingly, in between covering Tom's soft lips with a smothering of gentle, warm kisses.

Sybil's long dark hair - "spun midnight" Tom called it - had fallen forward, enveloping both of them, entangling the two of them in a falling veil of silky dark threads.

"God, Sybil ... your hair ... it doesn't half tickle!" Tom laughed. "Begin wherever you want to my love; after all, I'm sure you have so many fond memories of today from which to choose". Tom grinned broadly, gazing up at her through the dark tresses of her hair; God, how he loved this woman.

"But of course". Sybil giggled. "Well ..." Somehow, she managed to contrive a pause. "I suppose ... I suppose it would have to be ..." Sybil stopped in mid sentence, changing her expression, she hoped, from blissful to sombre, as though she had just recalled something unpleasant to mind, something she would far sooner rather forget " ... although, after you promised to devote yourself to my every need, I have to admit that I was rather disappointed ..."

"**Disappointed**?" Tom cut in nervously. "Disappointed with what?" He sounded genuinely shocked. There was a sudden edge to his voice, keenness in his words which had not been there before; fearful of what it was he had done, or not done, and how it was that he had blundered, had managed to fail in keeping the earnest promise he had made to her all those years ago in Ripon.

"Oh, no matter. Besides which, Tom ... you wouldn't understand ... Anyway, I suppose I'm just being foolish" said Sybil. Her eyes shimmered and she gave a deep sniff; hoped that it had sounded convincing.

"No, tell me my love, please" said Tom, his eyes glistening. He had raised himself half up, resting on his elbows and was, at that moment, desperately searching her face for some sign, the smallest indication, of what it was he had done wrong. Sybil saw that Tom was watching her intently, as if the very fate of the whole world hung upon her spoken answer." If I've done something I shouldn't ..."

Sybil cut him off, silenced Tom's words completely with her mouth, and then said softly between kisses:

"No, of course you haven't my darling".

"Well then ..." Sybil heard Tom let out an earnest heartfelt sigh of relief, felt him relax noticeably beneath her, as she continued to brush his lips with gentle kisses; kisses which slowly and inexorably, grew ever more ardent, ever more passionate, demanding that Tom in turn respond to her obvious and renewed need of him. Tom felt his wife's gently caressing hands move from off his shoulders, slip to his chest, then lower to his hips, to his thighs, and finally reach up between his legs, where the insistence of Sybil's slow, soft strokes soon had Tom moaning and sighing with untrammelled pleasure.

"It ... was ... only ..."  
"Only what?" whispered Tom.

"That ... my ... wealthy ... aristocratic ... English ... fiancé failed to turn up at the church. That ... I ... had ... instead ... to ... settle… for… marrying ... some ... poor ... lowly ... Irishman ... who… Well, who just happened to be passing by on the street outside the church door!" said Sybil in a rush and with a giggle.

Then, despite feeling beneath her the swelling proof of Tom's rising need of her, knowing how ticklish he was, knowing what the result would be, Sybil ran her fingertips lightly over Tom's bare chest and in a trice, quickly rolled herself off from his naked body, and back onto her side of the bed.

"Jaysus! Why you little minx" yelled Tom with an outraged bellow of a laugh. "Why, just for that ... Come here **Mrs. Branson** and we'll discuss the presumed failings, the shortcomings, of this poor ... lowly ... Irishman somewhat further!"

"I'd much rather that you came over here in person to discuss them, **Branson**" said Sybil in the most aristocratic and commanding tone she could muster, followed by another provocative and sensuous giggle.

Aroused as Tom now was, Sybil did not have to tell him twice. For, apart from his desperate need of her, there was, thought Tom, a beguiling, sensual fragrance about her, which invited him, in fact positively demanded, that he seek out its very source.

"Very well, **Milady**". Tom chuckled. "Whatever you command!"

Tom was laughing again now, rolling swiftly over on top of her, nuzzling at Sybil's throat, burning kisses along the line of her jaw, kissing her chin, her lips, covering his face in the tossing tide of her dark hair, and at the same time urgently kicking away and thrusting off the entangling blankets and sheets, which fell in an un-regarded, disordered heap to the floor...

Later, much later, when they had finally sated their desires, had perforce remade the bed, and were again snuggled together, contentedly wrapped in each other's arms, Sybil's head resting upon Tom's shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair he asked of her the same question once again.

"So, now, my darling" Tom said softly, gazing down at Sybil, stroking her dark hair. "Tell me truthfully, what you did like best about our wedding day ..."


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter Fifty

Medical Opinion

When it happened, it had occurred more or less in the very same place that the Number 31 tram had come to a stand but a few days ago, here on North Strand Road, just beyond the Newcomen Bridge spanning the Royal Canal, and for very much the same reason as before - a problem with the electricity supply. Suddenly, unexpectedly, without warning, the tram drew all but silently to a complete stop and at the same time all the lights went out leaving the lower saloon in which they were both seated in complete darkness.

After Mary and Edith had declined his well intentioned offer of a lift back to the Shelbourne Hotel in his staff car, Captain Stathum had made his brisk farewells and departed with his men over the O'Connell Bridge heading, Tom rightly assumed, for the Castle. Shortly afterwards, both Tom and Sybil had finally seen Mary and Edith off in a motor cab bound for the Shelbourne, the two of them sitting in the back smiling and waving their fond farewells, each clutching the individual posy of flowers which Tom had thoughtfully purchased for them both from a small shop he knew down on Henry Street.

It had been the case, said Tom, by way of explanation to them all for his long absence, that while he was making his purchases, a British army lorry had come to a stand further down Henry Street. A group of soldiers had jumped out and begun battering down the door of a house nearby, looking for, it transpired, and on the basis of a tip-off from an informant, others implicated in the attack on the police over on St. Stephen's Green earlier that same day. The intelligence had proved faulty, with no-one found at the address, with the soldiers angrily departing empty handed and to a blistering tirade of abuse from the woman of the house, demanding of them all loudly, in colourful and strident tones, just who the feck it was who was going to pay for making good the damage they had caused to her front door. That the soldiers had just laughed at her, with one of them openly relieving himself in front of her on the pavement immediately outside the shattered front door to her home, Tom thought it better that he keep those particular details to himself.

He had, he said, witnessed the entire proceedings from behind the front window of the flower shop and it was only when he attempted to leave, to return whence he had come, that for the second time that day, and with a sickening sense of déjà vu, he had found himself surrounded by the snarling faces of uniformed men, this time soldiers of the British Army. Fortunately for Tom, the officer in charge turned out to be Miles Stathum, who quickly recognised him from their encounter at the farm out on the Howth road, curtly ordering his men to desist, and offering to come with Tom back to Sackville Street and explain his enforced absence to Sybil and her two sisters.; an offer which given the amount of time which had elapsed since he had left them, Tom had readily accepted with alacrity. Or, so he had said; Stathum's presence with him outside the GPO seeming to confirm what Tom himself had related.

It was only afterwards, as Sybil and Tom had walked arm in arm slowly over past the now all but deserted Pillar to board the Number 31 tram bound for Clontarf, that Sybil had noticed the group of raggedly dressed women selling flowers clustered round its base. If Tom had indeed gone in search of flowers for both Mary and Edith, then why had he not availed himself of the sellers by the Pillar? Had Sybil herself not been as dog tired and bone weary as Tom undoubtedly was himself, then she might well have asked him for an explanation, but after all that had happened, Sybil let her question remain unasked of him and there, at least for the moment, the matter itself rested .

At this late hour there were few other passengers about; with the coming of nightfall there was also now a distinct chill in the air, so they sat inside on the enclosed, downstairs, lower deck. Not surprisingly, once on board and seated, despite the uncomfortable nature of the hard, slatted, wooden seats, finally succumbing to his hurts and overwhelming tiredness, Tom had at last fallen asleep with his head resting pillowed softly in Sybil's lap. She smiled indulgently down at him, tenderly stroked his bruised and cut face with her fingers, and with her hand then gently brushed back his mop of fair hair from where it had fallen forward over his forehead. Let him sleep, thought Sybil. After all, sleep was just what Tom needed most, what indeed they both needed, given all that had happened to them earlier that same day.

Unbidden, she found her thoughts returning to Dr. McCalley, the doctor from nearby Merrion Square, who had attended Tom at the Shelbourne, who had, after a thorough examination of him, confirmed that Tom had sustained no lasting injuries from the beating he had received at the hands of the Dublin Police; told them both that what Tom needed now most was rest and that both the pain and tightness which Tom had felt in his chest had nothing to do with his heart condition. Given that on the doctor's arrival, Tom had told him that it felt as if "the blasted thing" - referring to his own heart - "was about to leap out of my chest", with the advantage of her own training as a nurse, Sybil wasn't at all convinced, decided that she would ask Dr. Hays, one of the doctors she knew tolerably well at the Coombe about Tom's condition; whether what had happened today could have affected him more than Dr. McCalley had seemed to think was the case, and, if necessary also ask of him a second opinion, but that for now, perforce, would have to wait.

So, she had bitten her lip, had forborne to make her own opinions known, and instead simply thanked the doctor and took immediate charge of the bottle of tablets which he had given her to help ease Tom's pain. She did not fail to notice either, that when the doctor asked Tom how it was he had come by his injuries, when Tom had explained he had been involved in a minor scuffle with the police, the doctor's manner changed abruptly, became decidedly unsympathetic, betrayed by in his dour expression where his political sympathies truly lay: although he said nothing, made it abundantly clear that, in his opinion, anyone involved in a "minor scuffle" with the police deserved all they got. The doctor's antagonism was proof positive, if any was needed thought Sybil grimly, of the overt, vicious prejudice which Tom had told her he had encountered off and on throughout his entire life.

Thereafter, Sybil watched with rising anger, as the doctor's grey, lugubrious eyes roved insolently around the elegant room, taking in the luxurious furnishings, his eyes returning more than once to the seemingly incongruous sight of the decidedly battered young man, obviously working class, wearing an ill fitting suit - equally obviously not his own - and lying prostrate on the settee.

Clearly in the doctor's mind at least, something did not add up: not only the bizarre presence here, in such opulent surroundings, of the young man lying before him but also the anxious, dark haired young woman herself standing close by him, dressed in the uniform of a nurse. She had imparted to him that she worked at the Coombe. That didn't add up either; at least not to Dr. McCalley; someone of her background and breeding working at the Coombe and as a nurse? He couldn't believe it. That she was English and came from a very wealthy family was all too obvious - borne out both by her upper class accent and by their present surroundings. After all, as anyone here in Dublin knew only too well, to stay at the Shelbourne required money, and it was equally obvious too that the young man didn't have any - that the young woman had asked that the bill for his professional services be forwarded for settlement to "my sister, Lady Mary Crawley, here at the Shelbourne Hotel".

Indeed, now Dr. McCalley came to think about it, when he had arrived here at the hotel late this afternoon, given the class of the person one normally encountered at the Shelbourne, he had respectfully enquired politely at the reception desk in the wrecked front lobby as to the identity of his prospective patient, only to be told that he was not a guest of the hotel, that his identity was unknown, but that he was in some way connected to the earl of Grantham whose two elder daughters were occupying the suite in which "Mr. Branson" was now temporarily residing, and to whom, it was understood, he had rendered some kind of sterling service. "My sister, Lady Mary Crawley ..." he mused. Then that must mean that the young woman herself was ... If for no other reason than to satisfy his own innate curiousity, he would ensure that he looked up the relevant entry in his copy of Burke's Peerage on his return home to Merrion Square.

Casting an oblique, sidelong glance at the undeniably attractive, dark haired, young nurse Dr. McCalley's lip curled and his expression now assumed that akin to someone sucking a lemon. He could just well imagine the kind of service the good looking Mr. Branson might well have rendered to one, two, or perhaps all three, of the daughters of the earl of Grantham. After all, he himself had, on occasion, come across such aristocratic women before, who, when the mood took them, as from time to time and in certain circumstances it undeniably did, regrettable though such lapses might be, sought certain favours and solace from handsome working class men, admittedly usually servants in their own employ, footmen, valets, even on occasion chauffeurs, and who were, in such circumstances, in his view, kept men. As for the women involved, he would not dignify them by referring to them as ladies. They were in Dr. Mccalley's decided opinion, but for the accident of their birth, no better than the prostitutes who openly hawked their services for money up on Amiens Street in the Monto.

Two years ago he had had to attend the unfortunate outcome of one such a liaison when the younger daughter of one of his aristocratic patients here in Dublin had found herself in a delicate condition. The identity of the unfortunate child's father was never divulged to him, although from something which was said, Dr. McCalley suspected it to be a member of the garrison stationed at the Royal Barracks close by. The young woman's outraged father had insisted that the matter be "dealt with quietly" and that the infant be placed in the care of Sisters of Charity who ran St. Vincent's Hospital on St. Stephen's Green.

As for the young woman herself, she had been sent abroad, to recuperate discretely with relatives living in some distant, godforsaken, far flung outpost of the British Empire, a hill station somewhere in India he thought, and any whiff of scandal thus neatly snuffed out, much as had been the life of her unwanted child. Later, Dr. McCalley learned that soon after being placed in the care of the orphanage the unwanted child had died, but that of course was not a matter to be noised abroad.

In fact, Dr. McCalley was singularly indifferent to the fate of the child, and equally singularly unaware that his own, and what he assumed to be, private opinion of the present situation - as he mistakenly imagined it to be - showed all too clearly in the expressive features of his face; that as a result of which, in an instant, the young nurse's own expression had changed from that of solicitous concern for the young man lying prone on the settee to one of aristocratic, contemptuous disdain for no other person than Dr. McCalley himself.

Thereafter, she had escorted him quietly to the door of the suite, had thanked him, rather perfunctorily he had thought, for his professional services, adding quietly that she knew just how much worth she placed on his medical judgement. At that, in spite of himself, he had smiled at her, heard himself saying that he hoped Mr. Branson made a speedy recovery, and then left without further ado. Nevertheless, as he walked back along the corridor to the hotel's main staircase, he made a mental note to himself to make discrete enquiry of a fellow medical practitioner who, in the circumstances, fortuitously happened to sit on the board of the Coombe hospital, as to just what exactly was known of both the identity and the antecedents of the young nurse who had so undeniably piqued his curiousity.

It was only after he was descending the grand staircase of the hotel that Dr. McCalley realised her words of seeming praise, might well have meant exactly the opposite of how he had interpreted them. Well so be it. A few more guineas added to the bill for his "professional services" would not go amiss, would more than make restitution for the young woman's insolence, because the more he thought about it, the more he thought, no **knew**, that her passing remark had not been intended as a compliment, but a discrete and stinging rebuke, delivered with all the clinical skill of a surgeon probing for a lump. So, he had no qualms, none whatsoever, about adding to the charges for his services. After all, he had no doubt that no less a person than the earl of Grantham himself would in fact be paying for his attendance here, late this afternoon, in the elegant surroundings of a second floor suite, at the bomb damaged Shelbourne Hotel.

The tram had still not moved.

Tom shifted in his slumbers. Although she could not see it, she could sense a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

"I love you Sybil". The words came to her softly from out of the darkness.

"I love you too, my darling" said Sybil, her eyes shimmering.

Although she could not see his face, she looked dotingly down upon him, smiled, and ruffled his thick thatch of hair. Undoubtedly, he needed a haircut; had said so himself, that he would have one before their wedding. Unheeded by Tom, his mop of hair had fallen forward over his forehead yet again; were it possible something which made him even more endearing, always made him look younger thought Sybil, look much as he must have done when he was a young boy. It was then, in the darkened saloon of their tramcar, as Sybil made to brush back his hair from off his forehead yet again, that the reflected glare from the lights of a tram, rattling past in the opposite direction heading towards the Pillar, back whence they had just come, fell directly on Tom, illuminating his bruised and cut face, causing him to wake, to open his eyes. He looked up at her.

Blue gazed up into blue gray.

Blue gray gazed down into blue.

Just as they had done all those years ago ... in the stable yard at Skerries House.

"You look a mess".

"Don't I just" said Tom and gave her an endearing, lop sided grin.

And, sitting there on board the stationary tram, as Sybil smiled down at Tom, smoothed back his hair, and gently touched his battered face, she felt the faintest stirring of a memory long suppressed.

Evidently, it had been dark back then too. She was kneeling in a large, empty space, looking down at someone. Where she was, who it was she was looking at, she did not know, but sensed, no **knew,** that somehow she should. A sudden ray of light cast by a horn lantern - how on earth did she know that - had briefly illuminated a young boy's face, bruised and bleeding, but then, just at that very moment, there was a sudden jerk, the tram lurched forward, and the vision dissolved instantly into vapour.


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter Fifty One

With This Ring …

"Well …" said Sybil softly, her eyelids now heavily laden with sleep, "I suppose … I suppose it would have to be when you slipped this on to my finger". Languidly, yawning broadly, she now held up her left hand, gazing almost wonderingly at the plain, slim gold band that now adorned the fourth finger. Plain that was saving for the inscription engraved upon it. Three simple words: "Gach Nóiméad Airdeallach" – "Every Waking Minute".

Just beyond the end of their double bed, and heralding the beginning of a new morn, the start of the first day of their married life together, the faintest glimmer of the pale grey dawn stole its fingers furtively and unbidden through the window into the room round the edges and between the narrow chinks in the thick curtains. The soft early morning light caught the reflected fire from the burnished gold of Sybil's wedding ring, making it both glisten and sparkle.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't afford something more worthy of you, my love" mumbled Tom apologetically. He stretched languidly, yawned, and then enfolded her tightly in his strong arms once again, nuzzling the scent of her hair, his face burrowed against the back of her head.

"Don't be silly, Tom. It's just perfect" said Sybil drowsily, herself now all but fast asleep. "Yesterday was absolutely perfect too. A beautiful day, one I will never forget …"

"Me, neither" said Tom sleepily. And, but a moment or two later, despite the comparative lateness of the hour, wrapped in each others' arms, both of them fell fast asleep.

After the early morning mist had finally burnt away, the day of Tom and Sybil's wedding had dawned bright and sunny, with fleecy, white clouds scudding across the azure of a brilliant blue sky.

While Sybil had remained behind with Ma at the little house in Clontarf, Tom had spent the previous night, his last as a single man, lodging with Emer and Peadar down in Glasthule, along the coast, just south of Dublin. For their part, Ciaran, Donal - who was to be Tom's Best Man - and Peadar, had earnestly assured Sybil that between them, by hook or by crook if necessary, they would ensure that Tom was at the church in Clontarf, bright and early the following morning, well in time for the wedding ceremony.

However, the lingering intensity of the passionate kiss with which Tom had bade her adieu at the tram stop over on the sea-girt esplanade just along from Ma's house the previous evening, had left Sybil in no doubt whatsoever that he would be needing no assistance at all to ensure that he was at the grey stone church in Clontarf the following morning; this despite a last minute light hearted threat made by Tom himself, before he left her for the tram journey into Dublin and then out to Glasthule, that he might yet stowaway with Alcock and Brown on their next trans-Atlantic flight or else join the explorer Colonel Percy Fawcett somewhere in Brazil.

For her own part, Sybil had promptly retorted that of course, Tom was as much a free spirit as she was, could therefore do as he jolly well pleased; as for herself, well, he should realise that Sybil hadn't quite yet decided where exactly **she** would be the following morning.

She had, she said slowly, and choosing her words very carefully, "almost made up her mind, but not quite". At that, Tom nodded and broke into a broad grin, an unmistakeable acknowledgement of the fact that he recalled her saying those very same words to him, on a long gone evening in the garage back at Downton. However, continued Sybil, Tom could rest assured that, if no-one came along with a better offer to tempt her, and if nothing else made claim upon her very valuable time, then she might, just might, condescend to be at the church in the morning to marry him after all; he would just have to wait and see, adding that no less a personage than Mary herself had once said it was a woman's prerogative to be unpredictable. At which point, Tom said he was quite prepared to wait for her, forever if need be. And then it was Sybil's turn to smile in remembrance.

At that very moment, Tom had encircled Sybil in his arms, pulled her close to him in a heartfelt, tight embrace. Instinctively, as on so many similar previous occasions, careless, heedless of who was there to observe them, Sybil's arms had gone up round his neck, pulling Tom's head down towards hers, their lips meeting in a deep kiss; an intimate act which, this time, provoked a boisterous, raucous cheer and much banging on the windows from several young lads seated inside on the slatted seating of the lower saloon of the waiting tramcar. Blushing furiously, very reluctantly, they pulled apart, at the very same time that the conductor, eager to be off and away, rang the bell, and but a moment later, Tom had boarded the tram.

Of course, they had said goodbye on almost a daily basis, ever since their arrival in Ireland, when they left each other each morning at Nelson's Pillar and went their separate ways to work; Tom to the offices of the Independent on Talbot Street, and Sybil over to the Coombe. But, on this particular evening, seeing the tramcar pull away, with Tom standing on the bottom step waving to her until it rounded a curve and vanished out of sight, even knowing that in but a matter of hours she would not only see him again, but would shortly thereafter become his wife, nearly broke Sybil's heart. And, she was to recall this moment vividly, when later, and in markedly different circumstances, she found herself saying goodbye to Tom in the waiting room of an isolated railway station in County Cork.

When it had become only all too obvious that neither of her parents had the slightest intention of coming over to Ireland to attend Sybil and Tom's wedding, in the absence of the earl of Grantham, and without being asked, Ciaran had kindly stepped into man the resultant breach and gamely offered to give Sybil away. Sybil suspected that Tom must have said something to Ciaran, but he denied having anything to do with it, and Ciaran himself politely refused to discuss the matter. However, with the service to begin at eleven thirty in the morning, Ciaran assured Sybil that he would be at Ma's for eleven o'clock to escort Sybil on foot the short distance to the grey stone church on Seafield Road.

Apart from Ciaran, Donal, Emer, their spouses, and their children, the only others expected to be present at the short ceremony were Mary and Edith, who were being driven over to Clontarf in a car and by a chauffeur from the Shelbourne Hotel. There would, of course, be many more attending the evening reception being held in the long stone barn out at Ciaran's farm on the Clontarf Castle estate. That, from what little Sybil had managed to glean from Tom about the planned festivities, was likely to prove a rather more raucous affair. And although Sybil had told them she was confident she could manage on her own, both Mary and Edith insisted in arriving at Ma's house in plenty of time so as to be able to help Sybil with her hair and in getting dressed.

Irrespective of whatever the fashion magazines such as Harper's Bazaar taken, along with Vogue, for many years by her mother, and The Queen patronised by her Aunt Rosamund had to say about and suggested as appropriate attire for a bride, ever practical, Sybil had decided on a serviceable new two piece suit of powder blue, a white blouse, and picture hat with a short veil in which to be married, the colour and style of which had been kept from Tom. After all she was marrying away from home, and Sybil felt that her choice of wedding attire entirely became the modest, quiet affair she and Tom had planned, given after all what might have been, had her parents approved of her choice of husband and had they been being married in the local parish church at Downton.

And, when Tom had persisted in asking her questions about her choice of wedding attire, Sybil had told him to mind his own business; said that he had been coy about the reception out at Ciaran's farm, so she too was entitled to her secrets. Nevertheless Sybil had managed to make Tom blush scarlet when she blithely announced that since she hadn't been able to decide what to wear, she intended marrying him in just her silk underclothes.

Besides which, both Sybil and Tom had far better things on which to spend their money, be it that which they were now both earning for themselves or the money which Papa had given to Sybil so grudgingly by way of a dowry. As for the latter, Tom had told Sybil that it was for her, and her alone, to decide upon what that particular sum should be spent, thus provoking their first serious disagreement, Sybil retorting that Papa had given the money, amounting to several hundred pounds, to them both, and that **they** should decide **jointly **upon what it should be spent.

However, in the end their disagreement proved short lived and singularly pointless. For, given her father's blunt refusal then to come over to Ireland for their wedding, despite their straightened financial circumstances, both Sybil and Tom resolved not to touch a gift given so obviously out of aristocratic duty - noblesse oblige as Tom termed it - and not out of any real sense of filial affection for Sybil herself. Consequently, Lord Grantham's reluctantly bestowed dowry was therefore accordingly placed in a deposit account in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Branson, but newly opened with the Bank of Ireland on College Green opposite Trinity College here in Dublin; and there the earl of Grantham's money duly remained untouched for some considerable time.

The thorny problem as to where Tom and Sybil were to live after their marriage was swiftly resolved, at least for the time being. Ma's elder sister, who lived over at Lettermullen on the far west coast of Ireland in Connemara, County Galway, was ailing, and not expected to live. Immediately after Tom and Sybil's wedding, Ma intended travelling over to nurse her sister for what she realised might well turn out to be a protracted visit. In her continuing absence, Ma said she would much prefer it if the house in Clontarf served some useful purpose and so remained occupied.

In all the circumstances, and also because Tom and Sybil desperately needed somewhere suitable to live, with the complete approval of Ciaran, Donal, and Emer, it was readily agreed that the newly-weds could have Ma's house for as long as they had need of it. Initially, Ma refused to countenance taking a penny off them in rent, until, with Tom's wholehearted agreement, Sybil suggested a sensible compromise whereby they would pay Ma a certain specified sum each month, which she could then put aside for them both to be used, at some time in the future as a deposit towards the purchase of their own home.

Not of course that Tom or Sybil had the slightest intention of ever taking any of the money back from Ma. After all, the monthly sum involved was so small that it meant that they would still be able to set aside far more towards a deposit for their own home than if Tom and Sybil had had to pay to rent a flat somewhere in one of the suburbs of Dublin. As to whether or not Ma realised that the two of them had contrived to outwit her, even if she realised it, Ma herself never said.


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter Fifty Two

Here Be Dragons

And, so the morning of their long awaited wedding finally dawned. Of course no wedding ever goes quite as planned, and in that Tom and Sybil's was to prove no exception.

Shortly after ten o'clock that morning, and in an immaculate, chauffeur driven Rolls belonging to the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary and Edith arrived at the small whitewashed house overlooking the sea shore in Clontarf. Their journey through across Dublin had not been without incident, their motor having been stopped along with others at an army road block shortly after they had passed over the O'Connell Bridge, in connection with, had explained their chauffeur, the theft in the early hours of that morning of both ammunition and rifles from a police barracks just outside the city which afterwards had been burnt to the ground.

Mary had been incensed.

Blimey! Did the army **really** believe that she and Edith had a cache of stolen weapons secreted somewhere in **their** motor? How utterly tiresome! That apart, conversation between her and Edith had been desultory, each lost in their own thoughts, principally had they but known it much the same thoughts – revolving around shared childhood reminiscences of Sybil and coming finally to the same premise. If, years ago, someone had told them that as a young woman their adorable young sister eventually would find deep love and lasting happiness in the arms of the family's undeniably handsome Irish chauffeur, neither of them would have believed it possible.

Edith's disinclination to talk in the motor that morning was caused, at least partly, by the continuing turmoil in her own mind and her by now constant preoccupation with trying to think of way in which she could tactfully broach a certain subject with granny on their return to England.

As for Mary, part of her bad humour was caused by the continuing and deafening silence on the part of her own fiancé, Sir Richard Carlisle. For despite her telegram despatched to Downton informing their parents that she and her sisters had survived the explosion at the Shelbourne uninjured, despite the fact that what had occurred had been reported widely, and even in newspapers belonging to Sir Richard Carlisle, from the man himself there had come nothing by way of telegram or telephone call to ascertain how Mary herself had fared. And seeing how loving and how solicitous Tom and Sybil were towards each other, that had hurt even more, had really rankled.

Later, after she and Edith had returned to England, when Mary had confronted Richard about his silence he had merely observed that he had learned from her parents that she and her sisters were uninjured, so what more was there to be done? That had confirmed to Mary, if any confirmation was really necessary, of the utter hopelessness of pursuing any kind of relationship with Sir Richard Carlisle, but there remained the seemingly intransigent problem of how she was to bring to a close their relationship without things turning extremely acrimonious and at cost to herself and her reputation. After all, Sir Richard was not known for his sympathetic nature and was likely to take the ending of their engagement by Mary as nothing short of a declaration of war.

So, all things being equal, given her unrequited and continuing love for Matthew Crawley, Mary was in no mood whatsoever to hear from Edith how it was that some other more fortunate souls had met if not exactly the love of their life then their marriage partner, at someone else's wedding. And when Edith had observed that at the last wedding which Mary, she and Sybil had attended up on the remote fastness of the Northumbrian border - the marriage of a distant cousin - that the field of potential suitors there present had amounted to either unmarried elderly relatives or a halfwit, Mary let rip.

"Well darling, I don't much fancy your chances of finding someone suitable today then".

"And why might that be?" asked Edith, who before the words were out of her mouth was wishing she had kept silent.

"Surely it can't have escaped your notice, that apart from us darling, Sybil has no other relatives here in Ireland. Given what you've just said, that limits your field somewhat. Still, don't despair. Look on the bright side. If you are prepared to settle for an Irish half wit, then I don't doubt for one minute that there will be a male of the species here present at today's proceedings who qualifies as such".

Not surprisingly, the atmosphere in the Rolls throughout the rest of the journey out to Clontarf had been decidedly frosty belying the warm summer sunshine they both glimpsed through the windows of the motor.

In Clontarf, Sybil had been up at first light, insisting on helping, insofar as she could, both Ma and Emer with what still remained to be done by way of preparations for the meal to be eaten in the church hall after the wedding ceremony. What Ma and Emer had planned to provide had been more than adequate, but their task had been made that much easier by the unexpected arrival but a couple of days ago of a large wicker hamper. Initially when the driver of the motor lorry belonging to the railway company had knocked at her front door and informed Ma that he had a hamper for her from England, Ma demurred, said there must have been some mistake. No, said the driver, no mistake; none at all, and so indeed proved to be the case.

At the behest of Mama, presumably without the knowledge of Lord Grantham, packed by Mrs. Patmore, with them on the steamer, and delivered, the same day Mary and Edith arrived in Dublin, direct to Ma's house in Clontarf, by a motor lorry belonging to the Dublin and South Eastern Railway, came the large wicker hamper packed with all kinds of produce from the kitchen at Downton; causing Tom, when he saw it, to ask somewhat sniffily of Sybil if her mother really believed that food was unobtainable here in Ireland?

Sybil was not surprised by his response; knew only too well, that Tom hated anything that, as he perceived it, could be construed as charity. Yet in her heart, Sybil knew it was not in her mother's nature to dole out charity. Ma herself was rather more practical, seeing the gift for what it undoubtedly was; a wish on the part of Sybil's mother to try to try and make some form of amends for not being present at Tom and Sybil's wedding, so when Tom began to make known again, and this time in Ma's hearing too, his views about the hamper, seeing Sybil's distress, Ma had silenced him in an instant.

"Tommy Branson my lad, if you don't want to eat any of this food, then that's up to you. There will be plenty at your wedding that does!" Thereafter Tom dared say nothing more on the subject; knew that if he uttered so much as utter another word about the countess of Grantham's hamper amounting to charity, Ma would skin him alive.

Following the arrival of Mary and Edith, it fell to Sybil finally and at long last to introduce her two elder sisters to Ma and to Emer. Of course, Sybil was blissfully unaware of the acrimonious exchange which had passed between Mary and Edith in the motor on their way over to Clontarf. And, following their arrival, both contrived successfully to mask their true feelings towards each other for the sake of not ruining Sybil's wedding day.

To be absolutely truthful, given what she already knew of what Tom had already told Ma about Mary, and to a lesser extent what he had said to her about Edith, in his letters written home both before he and Sybil fell in love and thereafter and immediately before they had left for Ireland, Sybil had been somewhat nervous of their forthcoming encounter with Ma.

However, she need not have worried, for following the incomparable assistance Mary had rendered to "young Tommy" following the vicious beating he had received at the hands of the "poless", Ma herself was prepared to overlook anything Tom might have said to Mary's own detriment. She merely observed that Mary was "... not at all how I imagined you to be my dear", leaving Mary herself to draw her own private conclusions as to just what it was that Ma's enigmatic remark actually meant.

As for Edith, the fact that Tom had said so little about her in his letters meant that Ma knew next to nothing about her at all, apart from what Sybil had told her. However, both the obvious sincerity of Edith's approval of and her evident liking for Tom, along with the many compliments she heaped on him when recounting to Ma how Tom had helped both Sybil and her in the aftermath of the explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel won Edith Ma's unqualified approval.

Those attending the actual wedding ceremony itself would be just family, and would also be sitting down to the meal prepared by Ma and Emer, which now, of course, included much of the contents from out of the hamper dispatched with loving care from Downton. However, as Tom had enigmatically explained with a broad grin and wink to a somewhat mystified Sybil but a few days ago shortly before Mary and Edith's arrival here in Ireland, the real fun would take place out at Ciaran's farm later in the evening where what Sybil insisted on referring to as a reception and which Tom called "a céilí" had been arranged; at which Sybil would finally meet up with both friends and neighbours from Clontarf and the surrounding area who had known Tom as a boy and as a young man before he had left for England.

Several of Tom's colleagues from the Independent would also be attending the céilí, including Edmund Kelly who was to drive both Tom and Sybil out to the farm and back to Clontarf in a motor borrowed from his brother who ran a garage in Kingstown; Edmund's own motor had still not been repaired following the damage it had sustained in the ambush on the Howth road. Tom, Edmund informed him, would not be allowed anywhere near the steering wheel for, as Kelly had remarked ruefully to him in their office on Talbot Street, "the last time I lent you a motor the feckin thing came back with more holes in it than a ruddy colander". Besides which, added Edmund with a grin, "yous won't be in any feckin state to be driving anywhere after yous is hitched".

Later …

Looking extremely dapper, freshly washed, scrubbed, and shaved, his blond hair neatly trimmed and combed; Tom was sporting a new grey suit with a white carnation in the lapel. Fidgeting nervously with his gold watch chain, he glanced about him. If truth be told, Tom was becoming as restless as his young adopted nephews and nieces who, likewise equally freshly washed and scrubbed, were, notwithstanding the formidable presence in church of both Ma and their respective parents, starting to become restive and to move about in the narrow pews; even young Ruari, who seemed totally unencumbered by his broken arm, which was still in plaster following his fall from the hayloft out at the farm.

Seated immediately behind Tom, having told her own husband Peadar to stop fidgeting, Emer leaned forward, tapped Tom gently on the shoulder and whispered to him not to worry; Sybil would be here directly. Tom nodded, then glanced to his left across the aisle, and in doing so caught sight of both Mary and Edith, both elegantly attired, seated in the front pew on the other side of the church. He grinned shyly and was rewarded by two beaming smiles from both of the smartly dressed women who, in but a short while, would become his sisters-in-law.

Donal nudged Tom sharply in the ribs, and nodded towards the rector who was indicating that they should now make their way up into the chancel. So, the two of them moved out from the pew which they had been occupying and walked slowly up towards the east end of the church, to stand to one side in front of the altar rail. A moment later, as the organist began to play the opening bars of the Bridal Chorus from Wagner's Lohengrin, Tom breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief, grinned broadly at Donal, while, behind them, down in the nave, the small congregation rose slowly to its feet, as dutifully Ciaran conducted Sybil at a sedate pace up the aisle towards where Tom, his eyes glistening, stood proudly awaiting her arrival.

While neither Mary nor Edith could, for one moment, have faulted Ciaran's worthy performance, much later, after the wedding, reception, and the céilí were over, and they were both on their way back to the Shelbourne Hotel, they agreed that Papa should have been present to escort Sybil up the aisle and give her away. Each admitted, one to the other, to having had tears in their eyes as they watched Tom place the ring on Sybil's finger and heard her say "I do".

And, despite Papa's very upsetting and thoroughly inexcusable absence, along with his continuing studied silence, Mary and Edith were equally in agreement that the two congratulatory telegrams, one from Cousin Isobel and the other, surprisingly, from Mama, which had arrived unexpectedly earlier that morning at the Shelbourne Hotel, and which Sybil's sisters had brought with them to the wedding, along with a letter from granny which they had brought over with them from England, had all served to buck Sybil's spirits enormously.

When they all read it, the letter from granny provoked a great deal of mirth and amusement, reducing not only Tom and Sybil, but also Mary and Edith to helpless laughter. Ever the realist, and not one, as she so adroitly put it "to make a drama out of a crisis" - not that Tom or Sybil had ever viewed their marriage as such - the Dowager Countess expressed her sincere felicitations for both Sybil and Tom upon their marriage, and then promptly turned to the practicalities of the matter as she saw them: in particular addressing something which, granny assumed, that her youngest granddaughter, in her excitement to be wed, must have overlooked.

For, given the fact that Sybil was marrying Branson, just precisely who demanded granny, with touching and genuine concern on her part, would be driving Sybil to the church? Had she thought about that? Marrying servants was all very well and good in novels, but, had she not warned Sybil, that in reality such things could prove extremely uncomfortable? After all, good chauffeurs were so difficult to come by these days. And Branson, while no doubt possessed of many admirable qualities, had, after all, always been such an excellent and reliable driver.

For Tom and Sybil, the wedding ceremony itself, the photographs – taken by a colleague of Tom's from the Independent - and the modest meal in the church hall, all passed off in something of a delightful blur. However, finally having been pronounced man and wife and having made their way down the aisle to the south door and out into the sunshine of the July day, no-one who was present in the little congregation at the short service, held that summer's morn in the grey stone church at Clontarf, would have been left in any doubt that Tom and Sybil were absolutely elated. Happy ever after; none of those who saw them pass by arm in arm would have had any doubt of that; and, for once, it seemed that it would indeed be true.

After Sybil and Tom were married, while there were, not surprisingly, several awkward silences during the simple reception, everyone did their very best to try and get along. Mary and Edith both made a genuine attempt to chat with Ciaran, Donal and Emer, whom they naturally assumed were Tom's elder brothers and sister. In fact, for the brief period of time they spent in each other's company immediately after the ceremony, Ciaran and Mary got along famously, particularly after discovering a shared interest in horses, and on learning that Edith knew not only how to drive but also to repair a Saunderson tractor, Ciaran's admiration for her knew no bounds.

"I think Tom's rather been exaggerating the extent of my capabilities" said Edith with a broad grin, but nonetheless raising her glass in unfeigned salutation to her handsome brother-in-law who was presently standing chatting with his wife and Emer on the far side of the hall.

But Ciaran refused to accept that, telling Edith that, come the autumn, he would need several tree stumps shifting, and she would be more than welcome to come over to stay, prompting Mary to raise her eyebrows, and remark quietly to Edith, once they were out of Ciaran's hearing, that that was an offer she could not possibly refuse! However, somewhat to his disappointment, Ciaran's suggestion that he show Mary and Edith over the tenanted farm out on the Clontarf Castle estate on the morrow after the evening's planned festivities was politely declined on the grounds of there being insufficient time for such a visit.

Donal was interested to learn that Downton, like many other country estates, brewed its own beer. However, given the fact that the minutiae of the operation of Downton's small brewery was not something about which any of the three sisters knew anything of note, that particular topic of conversation rapidly hit something of a proverbial brick wall.

For his part, young Peadar contributed little to any of the conversation, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and somewhat surprisingly seeming to be in a constant state of nervous agitation, for what precise reason no-one, not even Emer, could divine.

Mary and Edith were on much safer ground when asked by Aislin, Niamh, and Emer to tell them about the latest women's fashions in both clothes and hairstyles; although of course many of the names of the couturiers mentioned by Mary and Edith, without any trace of conceit on their part, were not only unknown to the other three women, but their designs quite naturally, completely beyond their limited means to purchase.

But, somewhat surprisingly, it was in fact the children who made the whole occasion rather more bearable and a great deal easier than might otherwise have been the case, all of them bombarding Mary and Edith with all manner of questions about the kind of life they led at Downton Abbey.

To the younger children, the huge house far away across the sea, with its many rooms and its large domestic staff sounded like some kind of fairy tale castle, to the extent that absent Papa and Mama assumed the elevated status of a king and queen; Mary, Edith and Sybil that of three beautiful princesses.

To Mairead and Rosaleen, Tom's youngest two nieces, the fact that their adored uncle had therefore married a princess seemed absolutely magical; the garage where their Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil had fallen in love, assuming, for them, the nature of a secret trysting place.

For their part, Mary and Edith knew that "King Papa" took a less than romantic view of Sybil and Tom's garage assignations, that had he indeed learnt of them earlier, and if Papa had been possessed of but half of the regal powers with which the children here in Clontarf had endowed him, Tom would undoubtedly have found himself swiftly sent into exile or on his way to the executioner's block!

But, the only noticeable disappointment came when, in front of Sybil and Tom, Mary had to admit to six year old Padraig - Donal and Niamh's young son - that, as far as she was aware, there was no dungeon beneath the house. If there had been, thought Mary, Papa would undoubtedly have made use of it – in which to confine Tom, until he could have been secretly spirited away from Downton.

And, in answer to Padraig's next question, no, even when she was out hunting, Mary had, so far, failed to encounter a dragon anywhere on the estate. At that point, seeing Padraig's obvious disappointment etched so clearly across the little boy's face, Tom quickly intervened, and asked Mary with mock solemnity, belied by a broad grin and the merry twinkle in his eyes, if she had forgotten about the Dowager Countess? With a laugh, and entering into the true spirit of the occasion, Mary replied that now Tom had mentioned it, she had indeed forgotten about the Dowager Countess. At that, having blithely repeated the unfamiliar words of granny's title several times over to get them right, with a child's naive unconcern, a delighted young Padraig scampered off in search of his cousins to tell them of the confirmed existence of a dragon, called the Dowager Countess, who dwelt in a deep, dark cave called the Dower House somewhere on the Downton Abbey estate.

"And" said Mary with a grin to match that of Tom's, "if granny ever finds out that you view her as a fire breathing old dragon, grandson-in-law or not, Tom, make no mistake, she'll box your ears!"


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter Fifty Three

An Evening's Entertainment

No-one, said Tom, knew precisely just how old the huge stone built hay barn out at Ciaran's farm on the Clontarf Estate actually was. Among the stories and tales spun by Aislin to her youngest children round the fireside on winter's nights was one that told how it had been built by Merlin from stones left behind by him here in Ireland, when by magic he had spirited the Giant's Dance all the way from Mount Killaraus over the sea to Stonehenge in England.

"And when he had finished, Merlin was very tired, so he summoned a huge, fire-breathing dragon to carry him all the way back to England" said Aislin.

"What happened to the dragon?" This from Padraig, whose eyes had grown as round as saucers.

"Well it's a long way over the sea to England, so he was very tired too, but then he found a nice dry cave, curled up, and went to sleep" said Tom who happened to be visiting the farm at the time at Aislin's first telling of the tale..

"And so now must you", said Aislin with a smile, ruffling her youngest son's hair.

"Will you tuck me in Uncle Tom? Please?" Padraig pleaded.

"All right" said Tom with a laugh, catching the little boy up in his arms.

"And if you're very good and go to sleep, next time, I'll tell you another story about that old dragon".

"Promise?" asked Padraig.

"I promise" said Tom with a chuckle.

But shortly after that, Tom had left Ireland for Downton, and so never had the chance to make good on what, in good faith, he had promised so blithely to young Padraig. Not of course that either Aislin or Tom knew it at the time, but that fire-breathing dragon really caught Padraig's imagination and ever thereafter, until he grew too old for such things, he was always on the look-out for it. So now, having finally established the whereabouts of the dragon over in England, young Padraig was absolutely delighted.

"Of course, the stones at Stonehenge were there long before Merlin and perhaps it will never be known how it is they come to be there. And the hay barn was probably built by the monks from the abbey out at Howth. But don't tell Padraig that" said Tom with a laugh, having just explained to both Mary and Edith the real reason behind his young nephew's fascination with dragons. No wonder Sybil loves him so, thought Mary. Would Richard Carlisle be so good with their... she corrected herself ... with **his **children? She doubted that he would. Out of sight, out of mind, and packed off to boarding school at the earliest opportunity would in all likelihood be Richard's philosophy in that regard.

Standing by Tom's side, clasping his hand, Sybil smiled broadly, looked up at him fondly, her blue grey eyes shining brightly. "Do you know, some day you're going to make a wonderful father" she said. Not usually lost for words, Tom found himself blushing red.

"Perhaps" he said with a grin.

"No perhaps about it" said Sybil with a laugh.

"Any way you'll all see the barn later tonight at the céilí".

"Just exactly what is a céilí?" asked Edith.

"He wouldn't tell me, so I'm sure he won't tell you" laughed Sybil.

"Wait and see". Tom grinned.

Later...

In **this**?" Mary grimaced.

Seeing the horrified look on his eldest sister-in-law's face, Tom could not help but grin. Her pained expression was akin to that worn by Mary when she had learned that she was ending up with a chauffeur for a brother-in-law.

"You didn't much once like the idea of riding on a tram either" whispered Tom by way of encouragement, his deep blue eyes sparkling with merriment.

"Well no. But that ... that was different, Tom".

Mary looked again at the brightly painted, lumbering four wheeled waggonette, gaily adorned with ribbons, now rapidly filling with Ciaran and Donal's children and which was being pressed into service to transport other immediate family members, Tom and Sybil apart, out to Ciaran's farm for the céilí.

"Oh come on Mary, it'll be fun", laughed Edith already seated inside with Ma and with Mairead and Rosaleen on either side of her and Padraig sitting in her lap.

Mary was not at all sure if that was how she would term it. Did she "do" fun? She was not certain that she did.

"After all, Mary, it's only one way" said Sybil by way of an inducement. "Don't forget darling, the motor from the Shelbourne will be collecting you both from the farm later".

"Is that supposed to make me feel any better?" asked Mary still sounding appalled at the prospect now before her.

"I can just see the headline of my article in the Indy. "Eldest daughter to the earl of Grantham scared of children" said Tom mischievously.

"Tom, you wouldn't dare ..."  
"Wouldn't I?" asked Tom with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"Surely not? You wouldn't, would you, Tom?" Mary sounded appalled. Given her brother-in-law's irrepressible and unpredictable sense of humour she was not at all sure that Tom wouldn't go ahead and write something along the lines he had just indicated.

"Of course Tom wouldn't, Mary" said Sybil promptly by way of re-assurance. "You're family".

Mary breathed an audible sigh of relief; smiled warmly at her youngest sister, but her relief was to be short lived.

"Does that make a difference?" asked Tom contriving somehow to keep a straight face, his tone serious.

"**Yes!**" retorted Sybil promptly with a laugh. "As well you know Tom. After all, we **Crawleys **stick together!"

"Ah, but in case it's escaped your notice, **we're** the **Bransons** and have been for several hours now" laughed Tom.

Mary decided it was time for her to seize the initiative.

"Scared of children? **Me**?" she asked loftily with an expressively raised eyebrow. "Really Tom, just how long have you known me? Six years is it?" She laughed and grinning at her brother-in-law, turned promptly to Ciaran. "Mr. Branson, would you mind awfully helping me up onto the box there beside you?" asked Mary in her most aristocratic of tones.  
"Be my pleasure, ma'am", said Ciaran touching the brim of his cap.

A moment or two later and Mary gazed down at Tom from off her lofty perch on top of the box.

"There now; publish and be damned Mr. Branson!" said Mary crisply trying desperately and failing to keep a straight face; realising that she had been right all along when back at the Shelbourne Hotel she had said she would enjoy having Tom for a brother-in-law.

"Publish what?" laughed Tom.

A few moments later, overtaken in a cloud of dust by Edmund Kelly driving Sybil and Tom in an equally be-ribboned motor, and with the last of the family now seated inside the waggonette, they were off; Mary seated next to Ciaran on the front box, chatting animatedly about the forthcoming Dublin Horse Show being held next month and the prospect of women being allowed to compete for the first time ever in the jumping section.

About the same time that the waggonette crammed with its group of boisterous, noisy occupants set out for Ciaran's farm, but a short distance from the Shelbourne Hotel, across the road, out of earshot of any curious passers-by and well out of the way of the prying and ever watchful eyes of the British authorities, in a quiet and secluded corner of St. Stephen's Green, five men were engaged in animated conversation.

One, now off duty and dressed in non descript civilian clothes, was a police constable with the Dublin Metropolitan Police; one of those very same officers who had first accosted and then assaulted Tom in the entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel but a few days since.

"… and I'm tellin' you, Seamus that's what she said! Daughter to the bliddy earl of somethin' or t'other … I forget exactly where; said too, that bastard Branson was her brother-in-law; that he works for the Times".

"Then it can't be the same bloke then for sure. Why, the Branson we want, he works for the Independent. Mind you, she might be 'aving got the name of the paper wrong, that it is. Best be tellin' the others though, and if t'is the same bloody bastard, then Michael will know what needs to be done. After all, it might even be workin' to our advantage".

Within its ranks, the Dublin Metropolitan Police harboured many officers sympathetic to the rebel cause. Mary's public and spirited defence of Tom was about to backfire.

On their arrival at the farm, to everyone else's and their surprise, Tom and Sybil found that Ciaran's hay barn, which stood across the yard and directly opposite the farmhouse, looked for all the world as though it awaited a visit from no less personages than Their Majesties King George V and Queen Mary. And well it might do, for some of the bunting with which the high rafters and the stone walls inside the barn were now liberally festooned had last been used as long ago as 1911 when it had been purchased by the then owner of the Clontarf Castle Estate, Edward Vernon, to celebrate the coronation of the same monarch; not long before the old world lost its way, slid over the precipice, and into war in the long hot summer of 1914.

The irony of the employment of the bunting last used to fete the coronation of a monarch and now to celebrate the wedding of an Irish republican journalist was not lost on Tom, nor for that matter on Sybil either, who when told of the origin of some of the flags and the streamers both promptly dissolved into laughter; with Mary commenting drily, and with a smile, that evidently, nothing was too good for the Crawley family's erstwhile chauffeur.

The hard packed earthen floor had been swept all but clean of straw and other detritus. Long wooden trestle tables had been erected down almost the full length of the two long walls, covered with white linen cloths, and were now positively heaving with all manner of food and drink, while along with candles and hurricane lamps set out on the tables, colourful large round paper lanterns hung from the rafters, provided illumination. A variety of chairs, benches, and forms, along with bales of hay had been brought in to provide seating, and at the far end ,across one of the two shorter walls, formed out of planks laid across several empty wooden barrels collected up from off round the estate, or else "borrowed" for the proceedings from the Guinness brewery by Donal, a small, makeshift wooden stage had been erected on which the musicians were to perform and who, like Tom and Sybil, had just arrived, and were, even now, at this early stage in the proceedings, beginning to tune up.

When Sybil had asked of Tom on the way over to the farm exactly what kind of music was to be expected that evening, still being maddeningly enigmatic, he had told her to wait and see, but that it would be nothing like the sedate pieces played in the ballroom at Downton. On the small stage she saw that the three eldest of the men had fiddles, a fourth carried something akin to the concertina part of one of her long forgotten childhood toys - a Jack-in-the-box - and which she assumed must still be somewhere in the old nursery back at Downton, and the fifth, seated already on a chair had before him a large harp. With a distinct shock and a sharp intake of her breath, Sybil saw that the man carrying the concertina shaped object had a scarred face and wore dark glasses indicating he was blind, while the legs of the young man seated on the chair whose nimble, evidently much practised fingers were plucking softly at the strings of his harp, ended at the knees. Seeing what she had seen, Tom put his arm comfortingly around her slender shoulders and nodded in the direction of the musicians.

"The three on the fiddles were too old to fight" he said simply. "As for the others, Jimmy Farrell lost his sight in a gas attack at Ypres, Paddy Begg his legs at the Somme. Before the war, Jimmy was a watchmaker in Drumcondra on the north side of Dublin, and young Paddy well, he was known for his turn of speed on the football field. He even played at Croke Park for Christ sake. Now look at the pair of them. What a waste! What a needless bloody waste! As for Lloyd George and his feckin ruddy nonsense of a "Land Fit For Heroes". Tom shook his head, pursed his lips together in disgust.

"How utterly dreadful" said Sybil, suddenly conscious, for all their own tribulations, of just how incredibly lucky both she and Tom had been; in the same moment sending up a heartfelt and silent prayer to whatever deity or god it was that had spared darling Tom from becoming just another nameless number on one of the countless casualty lists of the dead and wounded; lists that after the last of the guns had finally fallen silent were forgotten or mislaid.

Thereafter, at least for the moment, Sybil found that neither she nor Tom had any more time to dwell on the terrible price paid by some who were deemed to have "survived" the horrors of what was, even now, being called the Great War.

The huge wooden doors of the barn stood open to the warm night air and from outside in the yard, as dusk began to fall and the night drew down, there now came to their ears, faintly at first and then growing louder all the while, the sound of voices, both young and old. On foot, by horse, by pony and trap, in carts, in wagonettes, and even in motors, there began to arrive at the farm all manner of people.

Happy, chatting, laughing, singly, in their twos and threes, in family groups, noisily they made their way into the huge barn. All of them, and to Sybil there seemed to be a very great number of them indeed, were come here this evening to eat and to drink, to dance and to make merry, and to join in the festivities certainly. But most of all they were come to raise a glass to a softly spoken fair haired Irishman and the attractive, slim, dark haired young woman now standing by his side; to drink the health and wish Tom and Sybil Branson well, at the start of their married life together here in Ireland.

Tom held out his open hand to Sybil.

"Come" he said softly, "it's time we met our guests and, rather more importantly my love, high time they all met you".


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter Fifty Four

"Crossing To Ireland"

According to what both Ciaran and Donal and indeed several others had told Sybil earlier this same evening, by common assent both in Clontarf and hereabouts, it was well known that darling Tom was an excellent dancer.

As the musicians struck up on their fiddles and winder, accompanied by Paddy Begg the legless harpist, a spontaneous and sustained bout of applause and cheering erupted from all those assembled here in Ciaran's barn to wish Tom and Sybil well for their married life together; who recognised the opening bars of the piece now begun to be played, among them, and not surprisingly, Tom himself.

Then, as the haunting, lilting, plaintive strains of the melody grew, waxed in strength, seemingly intent on filling every nook and cranny of the vast barn, even to the rafters, to the very ridge of the roof, the rapt audience fell silent, while all about them, from on high, there drifted down a gentle shower of dust motes which turned to flecks of gold in the soft pale glow of the candles and the warm apricot light from the lanterns.

Sybil smiled; inclined her head towards Tom.

"Oh Tom, this is lovely, darling, whatever is it called?" she asked of him softly, her blue grey eyes sparkling in the wan light of the makeshift lamps. Taking her hand in his own, their fingers interlacing, Tom his eyes glistening, smiled indulgently across at her.

"I'm so very glad you like it my love, all the more since I asked them that they play it especially for us" he said softly.

"You did? For us?"  
Tom nodded.

"But of course. After all, who else would they be playing it for here at **our** wedding, if not for **us**?" Tom smiled shyly at her again, his eyes two dark limpid pools of deep blue.

"Oh, Sybil, I do love you so very, very much" he said huskily, oblivious of everyone around them here present except for Sybil herself. Now that at long last they were married, no longer just in private, but here in a public gathering too, finally, Tom felt able to give free rein to his emotions, to admit openly, without fear of censure, his deep, heartfelt feelings for the breath takingly beautiful woman sitting next to him.

"And I love you a chuisle a chroí". The words tripped off Sybil's tongue with a lilting swiftness mirroring the plaintive sounds of the strings of Paddy's harp.

"Whoever taught you to say that?" asked Tom softly.

"Don't you think I could have learnt it for myself?" asked Sybil gently. She smiled again.

"Of course, but ..."

"No-one taught me, Tom, but you've said the words often enough to me these past few weeks".

"Do you know what they mean?" his voice was raised little above a whisper.  
Sybil nodded.

"Yes, Donal told me". Their lips were now but a heartbeat apart.

"And?"

"The beat of my heart". Somehow they seemed so apt". At that, Sybil reached forward and placed her hand gently on Tom's chest. He smiled, and, as the haunting strains of the plaintive melody died away, took hold of her hand, kissing the tips of her fingers.

"So, what is it called then?" asked Sybil her face flushed and aglow.

"Why, don't you know?" asked Tom with a broad grin.

"No, of course not, silly" said Sybil with a dimpled smile. "I don't think it's ever been on any list of pieces I've heard played at Downton. Not even, at the Servants' Ball!" she added archly.

"I don't doubt that at all, milady" said Tom. Catching sight of Jimmy Farrell now blind, along with Paddy Begg legless and seated up on his chair on the makeshift stage clutching his harp, plucking its strings for all he was worth, Tom's eyes suddenly glistened with tears.

"Jaysus, what a needless bloody waste! Do you ever wonder what the feck it was all for, Sybil?" asked Tom, his voice suddenly bitter, charged with an uncharacteristic savagery causing Mary to glance nervously at him. Tom nodded towards Jimmy and Paddy. Both Sybil and Mary followed his gaze; seeing what it was that Tom now saw.

"For a future worth having" said Sybil softly, her own cheeks now wet with tears. And, in the soft glow of lamplight, Mary smiled wanly, inclined her head. With the memory of what, among countless millions of others, had befallen young Private William Mason and indeed Captain Matthew Crawley, Mary too understood the very truth in Tom's spoken words.

"Aye! Let's hope so" said Tom softly. "As for the tune, my love, well, I doubt it will ever be played at Downton any time soon, least not while your father continues to hate my guts for, as he sees it, seducing you behind his back and stealing you away to live with me in poverty over here in Ireland!" Tom's voice cracked again with raw emotion caused in part this time by the sight of someone holding a whisky to Jimmy's lips.

Even now, several months later, here on their wedding day, across the sea in Ireland among both family and friends, reflected in the innermost depths of Tom's blue eyes, Sybil saw the pain that her father's unforgivable and unmannerly outburst in the drawing room at Downton, still caused Tom. That the slur her father had cast on them both when they had openly announced their engagement still stung, still rankled. For once it seemed that her mischievous play in reminding Tom of his old life had somehow unintentionally backfired and spectacularly so. But, if Sybil could do nothing else about the matter, she could at least heal Tom's wounded pride.

"Tom darling, you know that isn't true; any of it. Much as I rather like the idea of you seducing me, you were, indeed you still are, far too much a gentleman to do anything like that. Indeed, you are much more of a gentleman than many of those, Papa included, who consider that accolade to be their own particular birthright. And as for stealing me away with you to Ireland, you didn't do that either!" Gently she reached over and caressed his bruised face.

"Sorry love, don't mind me, I'm just being foolish". His eyes remained downcast.

Sybil shook her head, chucked him under the chin.

"No, you're not being foolish, Tom. It does you credit, to show so openly what you feel for Davy and countless of others just like him. It's your pride that's been hurt too. Irish pride. And I love you all the more for it" she said softly.

"But for all that Ciaran did such a splendid job of standing in for him today your father should have been here to walk you down the aisle. And make no mistake he would have been ... if you'd been marrying anyone else but me!" At that Tom looked away still unable to meet her eyes.

"Tom, will you look at me please" asked Sybil, her words not above a whisper, yet the urgency in her voice unmistakable all the same. At her earnest entreaty, Tom turned back to her and as he did so, reaching forward, Sybil cupped his well loved face in both her hands.  
"Then Papa would never have come over here to Ireland Tom, because ..."  
"Because what?" he asked of her softly. She saw then on his face the same look of bewilderment which he had worn at the Swan Inn on the never-to-be-forgotten night of their failed elopement, when she told him she would be returning home with her sisters to Downton.

"Because Tom, I would never have married anyone else but you a chuisle a chroí". Sybil placed a gentle kiss on Tom's lips, saw him begin to smile again, gradually to regain his usual affable demeanour.

"There now, that's better". Sybil smiled. "So then, you were about to tell me about the tune they were playing.

"Why, so I was. Well, it's singularly appropriate. At least for the two of us" said Tom. "And why is that" asked Sybil.

"Because my love, it's called "Crossing to Ireland".

At that he rose to his feet from his place next to Sybil. "Imirt air aris!" he called out crisply.

The leader of the small group of musicians on the small makeshift stage inclined his head, nodded his agreement several times. All eyes in the vast barn were now on Tom and Sybil; indeed, had they but noticed it, had been so for several minutes. Self consciously, and blushing furiously, but with his eyes now sparkling only with pure pleasure, Tom nodded again briskly to the musicians, and shyly offered Sybil his open, outstretched hand.

"Mrs. Branson, would you do me the singular honour of giving me this waltz?" Tom asked the question of Sybil, but did so loudly enough for everyone present to hear what it was he had just asked of her.

Then, as the haunting strains of the same air spilled out again through the echoing immensity of the barn, Sybil smiled coyly up at him from her seat on the bench.

"Why, Tom Branson, I thought you'd never ask me. I'd be delighted" she said in an equally clear and confident voice, letting him take her hand in his.

To a round of sustained applause from all those present, in which even Mary and Edith joined, neither of whom had ever attended a wedding quite like this one, and probably never would do so again, to back slapping, to cheers, and to whistles, grinning like a Cheshire cat, proudly Tom led Sybil out into the centre of the barn. All eyes remained fixed on the happy couple, as clasping Sybil's slightly moist hand firmly in his, slipping his right arm about her and holding his wife close to him, Tom swung her confidently into the waltz.

As they drifted gently round the barn, Sybil realised that Ciaran, Donal, and all the others had been right. Tom was both a confident and skilful dance partner. Put simply, held fast in his arms, Sybil felt as though she was floating on air. As Tom swung her adeptly past a vast sea of happy, smiling people, among them she caught sight of both Mary and Edith, their faces flushed, saw tears starting their eyes. She smiled back at them and then, as Tom turned her adroitly, Sybil following his lead, he himself caught sight of her sisters, and then his own family. Tom smiled broadly: all his dreams had now come true.

Steadfastly, and without faltering once, with Tom holding her close, the two of them continued to waltz effortlessly, slowly back and forth. Then, to yet more applause from the older guests present, other young couples now began to take their places on the floor around them, including, with all class distinction forgotten, if only the moment, Ciaran ably partnering Mary, and, not to be out done, Edmund Kelly who adroitly swung Edith into the lingering strains of the waltz.

"You're a wonderful dancer Tom" called Edith as she and Edmund spun past them.

Tom grinned.

"My, is there anything you can't do Branson?" quipped Mary with a grin as she and Ciaran passed by on the other side of Tom and Sybil.

"Well, I didn't make a very good chauffeur, milady" called Tom with a chuckle.

"Oh, I don't know about that Tom. I rather think that someone here present tonight would disagree with that!" laughed Mary looking directly at Sybil.

"I did my poor best!" Tom grinned.

"Less of the poor, thank you!" laughed Sybil.

Tom gazed down at her.

"**Mrs. Branson**. Sybil, you have no idea how I've longed to be able to call you that" he said softly.

"And you don't know how I've longed for you to be able to call me it too" whispered Sybil. She smiled up at him.

"Tom?"  
"Hm?"

Surrounded by friends and family, Sybil gazed into Tom's face, her eyes aglow, radiating nothing except untrammelled happiness.

"May I say something very intimate?"  
"What, in public?" He grinned down at her.

"I'll whisper it".

"Well, if you must!"  
"Tom. I absolutely adore you!"

_I don't normally add endnotes, but to get the true atmosphere of this chapter, find "Crossing To Ireland" as played by Liang C Lin and Ezra Armon on the Internet. I have no connection to either artist. As it plays out, who knows, if you're very lucky out of the corner of your eye you may just catch sight of a certain former chauffeur and his young wife waltzing round Ciaran's barn._

_TIC _


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter Fifty Five

Demons

Although, but for the first waltz, the dancing had not yet truly begun, the noise in the barn was now all but deafening, the heat almost overpowering; the air thick with the mixture of all manner of smells: the mouth watering savoury aromas of different kinds of food, the heady scent of cheap perfume, the pungency of stale sweat, the sweetness of freshly cut hay, the fug of cigarette and tobacco smoke, the cool fragrance of eau-de-cologne, and the noxious reek of paraffin from the lanterns.

From those seated on either side of the long trestle tables there arose a constant heckle of animated, boisterous chatter, for the most part good natured, interspersed with the repeated clatter of cutlery on china and earthenware, and the chink of glasses and tankards continually being brought noisily together in a seemingly never-ending round of rowdy toasts made, not only for the benefit of both Tom and Sybil, but seemingly for well nigh everyone else present too. This being Ireland, not surprisingly, both the Guinness and whiskey flowed freely, while for the more abstemious, or for the handful of those here tonight who had taken the pledge, as well as for the children, there was cooling lemonade, fiery ginger beer, or lashings of hot, scalding tea.

From the beginning of the céilí, after they had greeted their guests, for the meal, and unless they were dancing, throughout the evening, Sybil and Tom occupied the chief place of honour, in the middle of the long trestle table placed apart from the all the others, at the opposite end of the barn to the stage erected for the musicians, and reserved for the Bransons and their immediate family including Sybil's own two sisters.

Now that the meal, if not the drinking, was all but over and the dancing really about to begin, from her vantage point, Sybil had an unrivalled view of the evening's proceedings; watched with an increasingly broad smile, as they unfolded in all their carefree, lively, noisy abandon.

Her smile broadened into a grin as she thought what if her parents and grandmother **had **indeedcome over from England for her and darling Tom's wedding, what would **they** have made of the scene now unfolding before her? Oddly enough Sybil thought only dearest Papa would be adamant and unflinching in his no doubt open, strident, and supercilious disapproval of this evening's proceedings; that in fact dear Mama, and even granny for all her apparent snobbery, would somehow both rise to the occasion and take everything in their stride.

Thinking of her parents and her grandmother, Sybil's thoughts turned naturally to those members of her own family who were present; her two sisters. Opposite her Sybil saw, rather than heard, Edith engaged in conversation with Donal, about what she knew not, while Mary and Ma were likewise chatting as if they had known each other for years as opposed to only having met for the first time but earlier that day in the hallway of Ma's neat little house in Clontarf. Dearest Ma, who along with the rest of Tom's adopted family, had made her so welcome in what now, after all, was Sybil's adopted country. Glancing down the length of their table, Sybil saw that next to her Tom was deep in conversation with Ciaran, while Aislin and Niamh, aided ably by Emer, both had their hands full keeping their young offspring in check.

Of the immediate family, only young Peadar, Emer's husband was inexplicably missing yet again from his place at the top table, as already had been the case several times this evening, apparently pleading an upset stomach, or so said Emer, not that she herself had sounded at all convinced by Peadar's explanation to account for his repeated absences.

Later...

The céilí was now in full swing; indeed, had been so for well over two hours, as a succession of lively Irish jigs, reels, and several somewhat slower paced waltzes followed one hard upon the heels of another. Shortly after the meal ended, the dancing had begun in earnest, and the five musicians occupying the makeshift stage at the far end of the barn, whatever their physical disabilities, really set to work and showed their true mettle, evidenced now by their ruddy and freely perspiring faces, despite, or perhaps because of, being plied at regular intervals with liquid refreshment.

The noise in the barn was thunderous, any form of conversation well nigh impossible, and, even with the high doors of the barn standing open to admit the cool night air, the heat inside the building was intense; so much so that as the evening wore on, a ragged procession of people, men, women and even children, all of them perspiring profusely, could be seen heading out into the farmyard in search of some fresh air before eventually returning to the fray within. Indeed, as the festivities themselves continued, these impromptu, external, nocturnal "expeditions" had gradually become as much a part of tonight's proceedings as what was now taking place here inside the barn.

Within, notwithstanding the heat, the atmosphere inside was one of exuberant, good natured jollity even if, despite the best efforts of their womenfolk, some of the men were now decidedly worse for wear, having had rather too much to drink. Along with many of the men here present, Tom, who whilst partial to whisky was far more abstemious than most, had long since discarded his jacket, undone his collar, and loosened his tie, and was, at this precise moment in time, to be found deftly partnering Edith, along with Sybil and Donal, in a four handed star, to the lively tune of the Moon and Seven Stars.

Of course, before coming over here to Ireland, in their time both Mary and Edith, and to a lesser extent Sybil herself too, had danced a goodly number of reels when they, along with their parents, had been guests at house parties held up in the Scottish Highlands, most notably at Craigside the home of Lord Alfred Douglas Strathfern, a cousin of Papa's, and whose magnificent castellated house - granite built and a riot of pepper pot turrets and conical slate roofs - was spectacularly sited overlooking the beautiful Firth of Tay.

However, nothing which Mary, Edith or Sybil had experienced previously on their infrequent visits to Scotland could have prepared them for the sheer amount of energy expended in dancing at an Irish céilí. However, while like many of the others now briskly weaving their way through yet another reel, with cheeks flushed and eyes aglow, Edith and Sybil continued to whirl round energetically on what passed for a dance floor, Mary herself had long since succumbed, to the demands both of decorum and, rather more especially, to tiredness.

Thus it was, that, having handed over the enjoyable, if decidedly exhausting, duty of maintaining the honour of the Crawleys at the céilí to Edith, now that Sybil had finally burnt all her bridges, crossed the Rubicon, and become a Branson, Mary sat quietly with a comforting arm held tightly round little Mairead, who, along with her sister Rosaleen, having been whirled round on the dance floor several times by both her father and by her handsome Uncle Tom was snuggled against her side and dozing softly. Next to Mary sat Aislin who held young Padraig, likewise asleep, heavy in her arms while close by Ma sat with Ciaran chatting with Niamh, while apart from young Ruari, the rest of Ma's grandchildren clustered all around her greedily guzzling cooling glasses of lemonade.

Peadar, who had finally reappeared from wherever it was he had been, was seated talking animatedly to Emer and it was his obvious nervousness that first attracted Sybil's attention. Then, as they turned in the execution of the star, Sybil saw Emer's clenched hand fly to her mouth, her face ashen, saw her grasp her husband none too gently by his shoulders, heard her say "You bloody, bloody fool ...", the rest of Emer's words cut off, drowned out by the screams now coming from near the doors to the barn as from somewhere outside in the farm yard, his arm still in its sling, young Ruari tore inside.

Ahead of a stream, which quickly became a flood of frightened, terrified people now pouring from out of the chill darkness into the light and the warmth within, darting and diving, weaving his way through the sea of dancers desperately seeking his father, Ruari wove his own wild dance across the floor of the barn.

At last catching sight of Ciaran over on the far side of the barn who, seeing his son's obvious distress, had now risen to his feet, above the deafening, raucous din of the céilí, above the sounds of carefree laughter, the clapping of hands, the cheerful stamp of feet, above the rasp and the screech of the fiddles, the wheezing sounds of the winder, and the echoing, melodious, plaintive strings of Paddy Begg's harp, above them all, there came Ruari's terrified shout.

"Soldiers!" he yelled frantically, gasping for breath, his fourteen year old boy's voice breaking with emotion. "Da! There's soldiers coming up the lane!"

As people now began to take in the full implication of Ruari's shouted warning, many abruptly stopped what they were doing, what they were saying, glanced nervously from one to another, looked round concerned as to the whereabouts of both family and friends, while mothers screamed desperately for their children.

The dancing ended just as suddenly and in a disorganised scrum, those in the middle of the barn shuffling to a stand as the music died away in a discordant jangle of notes. In the momentary silence that had now so suddenly and unexpectedly descended upon the evening's festivities, clearly audible to one and all from somewhere outside in the darkness there came a menacing, rumbling growl.

The growl deepened, grew in intensity, and became a deep throated roar, heralding the unmistakeable arrival of several motor vehicles outside in the darkened, deserted farmyard. But a moment later, with only the slightest slackening in speed, with its huge acetylene headlights blazing like the eyes of some demonic hell hound, followed swiftly by its compatriots, the first of three heavily laden, lumbering army lorries swept in through the open doors of the barn.

As the lorries roared into the barn, most of those present, men, women, and children ran for cover, diving for safety, scattering in all directions, seeking what little sanctuary they could. Others, among them Edith, simply froze, she continuing to hold Tom's hand, unable to comprehend what it was that was actually happening. In the ensuing mayhem, and for both Edith and Sybil, in a frightening reminder of what had occurred but a couple of days earlier in the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel over on St. Stephen's Green, benches and trestle tables were over turned. Along with lighted candles and paraffin lanterns, china and glasses cascaded downwards to the floor and smashed on the ground; the dry earth thankfully extinguishing both the fallen candles and lanterns.

Woken by all the commotion caused by the sudden and unexpected arrival of the three army lorries, little Mairead also screamed, then buried her face against Mary. Not especially known for her compassion, nor for any maternal feelings - after all how could she be - Mary, herself now white faced, appalled by what was happening, instinctively hugged the terrified little girl tightly to her, just as instinctively grasped hold of Aislin's hand, Aislin herself comforting a sobbing young Padraig, while horrified, Sybil turned equally instinctively to Tom for protection.

On board the three lorries, the respective complements of soldiers were already kneeling up on their seats, rifles loaded, the safety catches released, the muzzles trained down on those closest at hand, and ready, at point blank range, to open fire at a moment's notice. The leading lorry drove headlong into the centre of the barn. Only at the very last minute, and but yards from where Tom and Sybil were now standing, did it finally screech to a halt.

For a moment nothing happened. No-one moved, and everyone now present here in the barn, on both sides, seemed to hold their collective breaths.

Then, a soldier jumped down from off the tailgate of the first of the lorries, ran round to the cab of the vehicle, and pulled open the door, allowing the officer to descend. As he did so, in that moment, with a shared rapid intake of breath, and a distinct sense of shock, Tom and Sybil, along with Mary and Edith, recognised... Captain Miles Stathum.

Miles stepped forward to stand a few feet in front of the radiator of the leading lorry. His eyes roved slowly round the barn several times, as with barely concealed distaste, he surveyed the scene before him. Finally, his eyes flicked back to the couple standing closest to him; he nodded curtly to Tom and Sybil.

"Mr. Branson". Miles paused, looked briefly at Sybil for a moment then said. "Mrs. ... Branson". Taken together, the pause and the inflexion in his voice unmistakeably conveyed the contempt in which he evidently held both Sybil and her marriage. Miles smiled a thin smile. "My congratulations to you both and ... my apologies for disturbing your evening's ... entertainment".

Letting go of Edith's hand, all eyes were now on Tom, as slowly, he moved forward but a few paces to where the bright beams from the twin headlamps of the leading lorry converged in a dazzling pool of white light. There he stopped; stood still, the courage and dignity inherent in him plain for all to see.

Behind her, Sybil heard Mary's sharp intake of breath, beside her saw Edith's eyes grow wide in amazement.

"_I won't always be a chauffeur"._

From years ago, from before the war, from the furthest recesses of her mind, unbidden, Sybil heard Tom's softly spoken words. Here, now, before Mary and Edith, before them all, was the living proof, if any was still needed, that her own belief and confidence in Tom had never been misplaced. At this precise moment, if it were at all possible, Sybil's love for him deepened still further and her intense pride in him soared: Tom Branson, Irishman, republican, former chauffeur, now journalist, her soul-mate, her fiancé, her lover, and now her husband, standing his ground against the unquestionable might of the British Army. If only her father had been here to see this.

"What are you doing here?" Tom asked quietly, desperately trying to keep his voice sounding neutral.

"I would have thought that was obvious" said Miles dryly.

Tom looked questioningly at Miles, said nothing.

Then, when Tom still failed to answer him, once again Miles smiled his thin smile.

"I'm looking for someone" he said softly.

"Looking for someone ..." Tom began.

Miles nodded. Then, never for an instant taking his eyes off Tom, snapped his fingers.

"Take him!" he said.


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter Fifty Seven

A Different World

Somewhere, just above his left eye, Miles was conscious of a blinding, throbbing pain. In what turned out to be a completely futile attempt to dispel it, he inhaled deeply, briefly closed his eyes, and shook his head. Undiminished, the dull ache remained. He could make no sense, none whatsoever, of his inexplicable and sudden remembrance of an unpleasant incident from his childhood; long forgotten and best left in the darkest recesses of his mind.

The nervous silence here in the barn persisted. Save for the occasional shuffle of feet, the cry of a child, a nervous cough, the clearing of a throat, it remained all but unbroken, while those present waited apprehensively to see exactly what it was that the army intended to do next.

The apprehension was just as tangible; both clear and palpable, and Miles sensed something else too; the inherent dangerousness of the present situation, both for himself and for those under his command. For, even by the flickering pallid light from the handful of lanterns which still remained lit, fear showed all too plainly in the frightened, watchful eyes of the sullen, white faces of the shadowy figures, both young and old, of men, of women and of children, clustered and ranged around the walls of the barn, standing, or seated at the trestle tables.

Terror, tinder dry like straw, but for all that, needful of but a spark for it to flare instantly into light, into a blazing panic that, whatever the eventual cost in human lives, would undoubtedly engulf both Miles and those under his authority; the hatred of Stathum and the soldiers under his command, of what they both represented, was equally obvious. Miles's mouth felt unaccountably dry. He ran the probing tip of his tongue over his lips and found them equally dry and parched. Then he remembered. Someone, he forgot exactly who it had been, had once told him that that was what fear did that to you.

Then, but a moment or two later, and the stillness which had descended so unexpectedly in the barn in the aftermath of the arrival of both the lorries and the soldiers was broken. Re-asserting his command of the situation, again Stathum snapped his fingers. Several of the NCOs present screamed for all the men attending the céilí to stand up and raise their hands in the air, while at the double, several groups of soldiers now elbowed and shoved their way forcefully past both Tom and Sybil, he with his hands held stiffly in the air, and moved quickly to stand en garde throughout the building, while those still kneeling in the rear of the first two lorries kept their rifles trained on those below them in the barn.

Miles watched dispassionately as some of the soldiers who had pushed their way forcibly past the Bransons now surrounded their intended target. Then, drawing his revolver, Miles walked slowly forward to where Peadar, white-faced, stood, with his hands raised next to Emer who was seated, but likewise ashen.

"Are you Peadar Moore?"

Peadar said nothing by way of reply, sat silent and stony faced, kept his eyes on the ground.

"I asked you a question".

Slowly, Peadar raised his head, looked at Miles, but remained as silent as before.

"Don't try my patience!" snapped Miles. "I ask you once again, and think very carefully before you reply. Are you Peadar Moore?" demanded Stathum now pointing his revolver directly at the young man's forehead.

In the lamp light, Peadar's forehead and upper lip glistened with beads of perspiration. Slowly, he nodded his assent.

"Very sensible" said Stathum softly. "As of this moment, you are under arrest and will come with us. I suggest that you make no trouble … unless you want any of these here present to pay for your own mistakes".

Peadar opened his mouth seemingly to protest, then realising the hopelessness of the situation shut it again just as quickly, his mouth set in a thin, stubborn line. With awareness now dawning upon her, that this was for real, it was Emer who spoke up forcefully for her husband.

"Jaysus, why? You can't!" she screamed. "Holy Mary, Mother of God! Please! He hasn't done anything!" She burst into tears.

"Really?" said Miles, softly sardonic, ignoring Emer's hysterical, tearful outburst.

Miles nodded curtly to his sergeant.

The burly, grizzled, moustached man did likewise to the three fresh faced young army privates standing directly beside him, who now seized hold of Peadar, pulling him roughly forward, in the process knocking Peadar's cap off his head. One of the soldiers grabbed his arms, jerked them forcibly behind his back, before helping his two mates drag Peadar in front of the sergeant.

"You searched him?"  
"Well, er … No sarge".

"Christ all fucking mighty! What the 'ell did they bloody teach you at the fuckin' training camp? Well don't just stand there you useless bastards! Search him!" Seemingly stunned, the two soldiers made no movement.

"Not yesterday! Now!" screamed the sergeant almost apoplectic with rage.

Embarrassed, red faced, the soldiers now hurried to do as they had been ordered, and in their haste to comply, did so none too gently. While one of them kept Peadar's arms forced behind his back, the other two made a swift and fruitless search of all of the young man's pockets. A few moments later with their search of him completed, they stood back empty handed; shook their heads.

It was just as well, reflected Peadar ruefully, that on one of his frequent trips outside the barn earlier this same evening that very wisely he had taken the precaution of hiding his revolver and the rounds of ammunition that went with it, along with his notebook. Wrapped in sacking, all lay hidden from the sight, and as yet undisturbed, beneath the midden in the middle of the farm yard.

Not of course that it did Peadar any good, for a few moments later, despite yet more screams from Emer and voluble protests from the rest of the Branson family, notwithstanding his own struggles, Peadar was dragged forcibly out of the barn and into the darkness beyond.

Meanwhile, other soldiers had begun moving slowly and methodically round the barn demanding with shouts and at rifle point the names, addresses, and occupations of all the men folk present. Any protests were quickly silenced, met with shouted obscenities and threats of physical violence to the women and children.

It was now that Mary rose to her feet, appalled by the brutality she was witnessing, only too reminiscent of that she had seen meted out to Tom by officers of the Dublin Metropolitan Police in the entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel.

"Surely there must be some mistake Captain Stathum. These people … they've done nothing wrong. They're guests of both my sister and her husband, and here by invitation".

"With respect Lady Mary, I assure you, I have very good cause. May I respectfully suggest that you do not involve yourself in matters that I would remind you, are none of your concern. For my part, I am a serving officer in the British army. My rank gives me the right…"

"Your rank may well give you the power, it does not give you the right" said Mary coldly. "As to this", she spread her hands expansively, "being none of my concern? Would you mind telling me just what possible reason you have for such an unwarranted intrusion as this? You cannot simply barge your way in here, arrest someone, and demand names of everyone else, at least not without very good cause. My father ..."

"As I said, that does not concern you". When Mary made to continue her protest, Stathum impatiently waved her into silence. "And before you mention your father's connection with the Viceroy, let me tell you that whatever association you may seek to claim between Lord Grantham and Lord French, it will avail you nothing, so I would suggest you keep silent" said Miles curtly.

Although she did not see it, Mary's spirited defence of those present earned her a look of admiration from Tom. Instead, she stood impassive, as if carved in ice, her face white with fury.

"But surely …" began Edith.

Miles swung around abruptly on his heel.

"Lady Edith, I would equally remind you as well as your sister, **both** of you in fact, this is not Downton Abbey. Over here in Ireland, this is a different world and I do not need to account to you or to anyone else here present, for my actions or those of my men tonight" said Miles tersely.

From the far end of the barn, close to the makeshift stage erected for the use of the musicians, several men's voices could be heard, raised in protest against what was now happening. Edith gasped in horror as she saw a young man clubbed viciously to the ground with the butt of a rifle; saw those who would have gone to his aid, pushed back brutally at rifle point.

"Now, shut the fuck up! Let's be havin' your fuckin' name. And none of your Irish gibberish neither. In English like I told you!" screamed the soldier standing over the fallen young man lying prostrate before him on the earthen floor.

"If either I or any of my men have to take time out to teach you, **any** of you, what we can do, I can assure you that it will not be a lesson much to your liking" snapped Stathum, his eyes glittering, ranging round the assembled throng.

Miles swung back to Emer. "As to your husband, he should have thought of the consequences of his actions before he began misusing his position with the railway company. A spell in a cell in Kilmainham Gaol will give him ample time to reflect on his stupidity".

Next Miles turned his attention briefly to Ciaran.

"You're the tenant farmer here?"  
Ciaran nodded his head.

Miles motioned at Ciaran with his drawn pistol

"Then you too will also now come with us".

Aislin looked horrified and young Padraig sensing his mother's distress promptly burst into tears. Impulsively, Donal made to start forward, to go to his brother's aid, but Tom was quicker and forestalled him.

"Easy Donal. Don't do anything stupid" said Tom insistently but quietly, and laying a restraining arm on the older man's wrist. He did so gently yet at the same time making doubly sure that Donal remained standing exactly where he was.

When Ciaran made no attempt to move, Miles snapped his fingers, pointed towards Ciaran with his drawn pistol. At that, several soldiers pushed their way forwards and, moving round the trestle table surrounded Ciaran, grabbing hold of him and jerking his arms up and behind his back. When young Ruari tried to intervene, notwithstanding the fact that his arm was in a sling one of the soldiers grabbed hold of the boy and flung him roughly to the ground while his compatriots manhandled Ciaran from his place, dragging him across the barn and outside into the blackness of the farmyard.

While Ma and Niamh helped Ruari slowly to his feet, seemingly oblivious to the needless brutality of his soldiers, Miles turned on his heel, began issuing further orders. Tom, who had dropped his hands, now with his arm held comfortingly around Sybil's shoulders heard Stathum say something about making a thorough search of the farm and the outbuildings. A moment or two later and the soldiers in the last of the three lorries were swiftly clambering down, lining up in rows three deep before, under the command of a sergeant and two corporals, setting off at the double into the darkness outside.

Miles turned back to where Mary still remained standing impassively next to Aislin, her arm held tightly round young Mairead who had slid off the bench and was now standing next to her, her tear stained face buried in the folds of Mary's skirt.

"Lady Mary, Lady Edith. Do permit me to wish you both a safe crossing and please convey my respects to your parents the earl and countess of Grantham upon your arrival at Downton Abbey" said Miles audibly; his seeming good wishes uttered in the most prosaic of tones as if he had been standing before them in the hall of their aunt's town house up in London.

Neither Mary nor Edith said a word by way of reply, and, as he saluted them both, Miles heard plainly his crisply spoken words echoing up to the rafters of the barn, and travelling round the assembled, frightened throng like wildfire: **Lady **Mary**? Downton Abbey? Earl and countess? **Well satisfied**, **Miles relished the obvious consternation which he had clearly caused. But he had not yet done with his revelations. Not by a long way.

"Mr. and Mrs. Branson, my congratulations upon your wedding. Once again, my sincere apology for interrupting this evening's … entertainment." Miles paused, nodded briefly at both Tom and Sybil. He turned as if about to depart, and then just as quickly swung back to them.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. One thing more. Mr. Branson, thank you for the kind assistance you rendered to both me and my men the other night down on Henry Street. As you can see, by this evening's proceedings, the information you gave me then has proved most useful".

Tom did not answer him immediately; instead he stood silent, biting his lip, saw Sybil look questioningly at him, heard the only too audible gasps of amazement from friends and neighbours present in the barn within hearing of what had just been said.

"I don't know what you are talking about" said Tom finally at length. "I gave you no information; none whatsoever".

"Oh come now Mr. Branson. You know that you did. I take it that you don't deny we met a couple of nights ago, on Henry Street?"  
Tom said nothing.

"No, of course you don't. You can't. Because it's true, as well you know. You know that to be so, and so too does your … wife. As to the information you gave me? Well, surely you remember you told me … where you would be tonight, so …"

At that, Miles shrugged.

"So why don't you have your men ask **me** for **my** name, **my** occupation,** my** address" demanded Tom defiantly.

"It can be arranged" said Miles coolly.

"Please Tom, don't …" implored Sybil.

"Don't distress yourself Lady Sybil".

"It's Mrs. Branson to you" said Sybil with equal defiance.

"As you wish, Mrs. Branson, but I assure you that there's no need to ask your husband for his details; none at all". Miles gave them both a composed and satisfied look. "After all, we know **who** your husband is, **what** he does, and **where** he lives. And we also … know all about **you**". Miles smiled his thin smile, turned on his heel, and made to leave.

As he did so, from outside in the darkness, midst the rasp of the harsh voices of the soldiers and the pounding of heavy booted feet, there came the frightened squawk of chickens, the terrified whinnying of horses, and the plaintive lowing of cattle, followed swiftly thereafter by the sound of splintering wood, the breaking of glass, and the sickening crash and thud of furniture being carelessly overturned as the soldiers began ransacking the farmhouse.

Amidst guttural shouts, there came then a sudden and ragged burst of gunfire, followed by a scream, then silence. Moments later, the burly sergeant pounded at the double into the barn. Drawing to an abrupt halt directly in front of Miles, he saluted.

"Sergeant? You have something to report?"  
"Yes, sir. One of the prisoners, he tried to make a run for it …"


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter Fifty Seven

A Different World

Somewhere, just above his left eye, Miles was conscious of a blinding, throbbing pain. In what turned out to be a completely futile attempt to dispel it, he inhaled deeply, briefly closed his eyes, and shook his head. Undiminished, the dull ache remained. He could make no sense, none whatsoever, of his inexplicable and sudden remembrance of an unpleasant incident from his childhood; long forgotten and best left in the darkest recesses of his mind.

The nervous silence here in the barn persisted. Save for the occasional shuffle of feet, the cry of a child, a nervous cough, the clearing of a throat, it remained all but unbroken, while those present waited apprehensively to see exactly what it was that the army intended to do next.

The apprehension was just as tangible; both clear and palpable, and Miles sensed something else too; the inherent dangerousness of the present situation, both for himself and for those under his command. For, even by the flickering pallid light from the handful of lanterns which still remained lit, fear showed all too plainly in the frightened, watchful eyes of the sullen, white faces of the shadowy figures, both young and old, of men, of women and of children, clustered and ranged around the walls of the barn, standing, or seated at the trestle tables.

Terror, tinder dry like straw, but for all that, needful of but a spark for it to flare instantly into light, into a blazing panic that, whatever the eventual cost in human lives, would undoubtedly engulf both Miles and those with him; the hatred of Stathum and the soldiers under his orders, of what they both represented, was equally obvious. Miles's mouth felt unaccountably dry. He ran the probing tip of his tongue over his lips and found them equally dry and parched. Then he remembered. Someone, he forgot exactly who it had been, had once told him that that was what fear did that to you.

But a moment or two later, and the stillness which had descended so unexpectedly in the barn in the aftermath of the arrival of both the lorries and the soldiers was broken. Re-asserting his command of the situation, again Stathum snapped his fingers. Several of the NCOs present screamed for all the men attending the céilí to stand up and raise their hands in the air, while at the double, several groups of soldiers now elbowed and shoved their way forcefully past both Tom and Sybil, he with his hands held stiffly in the air, and moved quickly to stand _en garde_ throughout the building, while those still kneeling in the rear of the first two lorries kept their rifles trained on those below them in the barn.

Miles watched dispassionately as some of the soldiers who had pushed their way forcibly past the Bransons now surrounded their intended target. Then, drawing his revolver, Miles walked slowly forward to where Peadar, white-faced, stood, with his hands raised, next to Emer who was still seated, but likewise ashen.

"Are you Peadar Moore?"

Peadar said nothing by way of reply, stood silent and stony faced, kept his eyes on the ground.

"I asked you a question".

Slowly, Peadar raised his head, looked at Miles, but remained as silent as before.

"Don't try my patience!" snapped Miles. "I ask you once again, and think very carefully before you reply. Are you Peadar Moore?" demanded Stathum now pointing his revolver directly at the young man's forehead.

In the lamp light, Peadar's forehead and upper lip glistened with beads of perspiration. Slowly, he nodded his assent.

"Very sensible" said Stathum softly. "As of this moment, you are under arrest and will come with us. I suggest that you make no trouble … unless you want any of these here present to pay for your own mistakes".

Peadar opened his mouth seemingly to protest, then realising the hopelessness of the situation shut it again just as quickly, his mouth set in a thin, stubborn line. With awareness now dawning upon her, that this was for real, it was Emer who spoke up forcefully for her husband.

"Jaysus, why? You can't!" she screamed. "Holy Mary, Mother of God! Please! He hasn't done anything!" She burst into tears.

"Really?" said Miles, softly sardonic, ignoring Emer's hysterical, tearful outburst.

Miles nodded curtly to his sergeant.

The burly, grizzled, moustached man did likewise to the three fresh faced young army privates standing directly beside him, who now seized hold of Peadar, pulling him roughly forward, in the process knocking Peadar's cap off his head. One of the soldiers grabbed his arms, jerked them forcibly behind his back, before helping his two mates drag Peadar in front of the sergeant.

"You searched him?"  
"Well, er … No sarge".

"Christ all fucking mighty! What the 'ell did they bloody teach you at the fuckin' training camp? Well don't just stand there you useless bastards! Search him!" Seemingly stunned into inaction, the two soldiers made no movement.

"Not yesterday! Now!" screamed the sergeant almost apoplectic with rage.

Embarrassed, red faced, the soldiers now hurried to do as they had been ordered, and in their haste to comply, did so none too gently. While one of them kept Peadar's arms forced behind his back, the other two made a swift and fruitless search of all of the young man's pockets. A few moments later with their search of him completed, they stood back empty handed; shook their heads.

It was just as well, reflected Peadar ruefully, that on one of his frequent trips outside the barn earlier this same evening that he had very wisely taken the precaution of hiding his revolver and the rounds of ammunition that went with it, along with his notebook. Wrapped in sacking, all lay hidden from the sight, and as yet undisturbed, beneath the midden in the middle of the farm yard.

Not of course that it did Peadar any good, for a few moments later, despite yet more screams from Emer and voluble protests from the rest of the Branson family, notwithstanding his own struggles, Peadar was dragged forcibly out of the barn and into the darkness beyond.

Meanwhile, other soldiers had begun moving slowly and methodically round the barn demanding with shouts and at rifle point the names, addresses, and occupations of all the men folk present. Any protests were quickly silenced, met with shouted obscenities and threats of physical violence to the women and children.

It was now that Mary rose to her feet, appalled by the brutality she was witnessing, only too reminiscent of that she had seen meted out to Tom by officers of the Dublin Metropolitan Police in the entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel.

"Captain Stathum, surely there must be some mistake. These people … they've done nothing wrong. They're guests of both my sister and her husband, and here by invitation".

"With respect Lady Mary, I can assure you, I have very good cause. May I suggest that you do not seek to involve yourself in matters that I would remind you, are none of your concern. For my part, I am a serving officer in the British army. My rank gives me the right…"

"Your rank may well give you the power, it does not give you the right" said Mary coldly. "As to all this", she spread her hands expansively at what was now taking place about them, "being none of my concern? Would you mind telling me just what possible reason you have for such an unwarranted intrusion as this? You cannot simply barge your way in here, arrest someone, and demand the names of everyone else, at least not without very good cause. My father ..."

"As I said, that does not concern you". When Mary made to continue her protest, Stathum impatiently waved her into silence. "And before you mention your father's connection with the Viceroy, let me tell you that whatever association you may seek to claim between Lord Grantham and Lord French, it will avail you nothing, so I would suggest you keep silent" said Miles curtly.

Although she did not see it, Mary's spirited defence of those present earned her a look of admiration from Tom. Instead, she stood impassive, as if carved in ice, her face white with fury.

"But surely …" began Edith.

Miles swung around abruptly on his heel.

"Lady Edith, I would equally remind you as well as your sister, **both** of you in fact, this is not Downton Abbey. Over here in Ireland, this is a different world and I do not need to account to you or to anyone else here present, for my actions or those of my men tonight" said Miles tersely.

From the far end of the barn, close to the makeshift stage erected for the use of the musicians, several men's voices could be heard, raised in protest against what was now happening. Edith gasped in horror as she saw a young man clubbed viciously to the ground with the butt of a rifle; saw those who would have gone to his aid, pushed back brutally at rifle point.

"Now, shut the fuck up! Let's be havin' your fuckin' name. And none of your Irish gibberish neither. In English like I told you!" screamed the soldier standing over the fallen young man lying prostrate before him on the earthen floor.

"If either I or any of my men have to take time out to teach you, **any** of you, what we can do, I can assure you that it will not be a lesson much to your liking" snapped Stathum, his eyes glittering, ranging round the assembled throng.

Miles swung back to Emer. "As to your husband, he should have thought of the consequences of his actions before he began misusing his position with the railway company. A spell in a cell in Kilmainham Gaol will give him ample time to reflect on his stupidity".

Next Miles turned his attention briefly to Ciaran.

"You are the tenant farmer here?"  
Ciaran nodded his head.

Miles motioned at Ciaran with his drawn pistol

"Then you too will also now come with us".

Aislin looked horrified and young Padraig sensing his mother's distress promptly burst into tears. Impulsively, Donal made to start forward, to go to his brother's aid, but Tom was quicker and forestalled him.

"Easy Donal. Don't do anything stupid" said Tom insistently but quietly, and laying a restraining arm on the older man's wrist. He did so gently yet at the same time making doubly sure that Donal remained standing exactly where he was.

When Ciaran made no attempt to move, Miles snapped his fingers, pointed towards Ciaran with his drawn pistol. At that, several soldiers pushed their way forwards and, moving round the trestle table surrounded Ciaran, grabbing hold of him and jerking his arms up and behind his back. When young Ruari tried to intervene, notwithstanding the fact that his arm was in a sling one of the soldiers grabbed hold of the boy and flung him roughly to the ground while his compatriots manhandled Ciaran from his place, dragging him across the barn and outside into the blackness of the farmyard.

While Ma and Niamh helped Ruari slowly to his feet, seemingly oblivious to the needless brutality of his soldiers, Miles turned on his heel, began issuing further orders. Tom, who had dropped his hands, now with his arm held comfortingly around Sybil's shoulders heard Stathum say something about making a thorough search of the farm and the outbuildings. A moment or two later and the soldiers in the last of the three lorries were swiftly clambering down, lining up in rows three deep before, under the command of a sergeant and two corporals, setting off at the double into the darkness outside.

Miles turned back to where Mary still remained standing impassively next to Aislin, her arm held tightly round young Mairead who had slid off the bench and was now standing next to her, her tear stained face buried in the folds of Mary's skirt.

"Lady Mary, Lady Edith. Do permit me to wish you both a safe crossing and please convey my respects to your parents the earl and countess of Grantham upon your arrival at Downton Abbey" said Miles audibly; his seeming good wishes uttered in the most prosaic of tones as if he had been standing before them in the hall of their aunt's town house up in London.

Neither Mary nor Edith said a word by way of reply, and, as he saluted them both, Miles heard plainly his crisply spoken words echoing up to the rafters of the barn, and travelling round the assembled, frightened throng like wildfire: **Lady **Mary**? Downton Abbey? Earl and countess? **Well satisfied**, **Miles relished the obvious consternation which he had clearly caused. But he had not yet done with his revelations. Not by a long way.

"Mr. and Mrs. Branson, my congratulations upon your wedding. Once again, my sincere apology for interrupting this evening's … entertainment." Miles paused, nodded briefly at both Tom and Sybil. He turned as if about to depart, and then just as quickly swung back to them.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. One thing more. Mr. Branson, thank you for the kind assistance you rendered to both me and my men the other night down on Henry Street. As you can see, by this evening's proceedings, the information you gave me then has proved most useful".

Tom did not answer him immediately; instead he stood silent, biting his lip, saw Sybil look questioningly at him, heard the only too audible gasps of amazement from friends and neighbours present in the barn within hearing of what had just been said.

"I don't know what you are talking about" said Tom finally at length. "I gave you no information; none whatsoever".

"Oh come now Mr. Branson. You know that you did. I take it that you don't deny we met a couple of nights ago, on Henry Street?"  
Tom said nothing.

"No, of course you don't. You can't. Because it's true, as well you know. You know that to be so, and so too does your … wife. As to the information you gave me? Well, surely you remember you told me … where you would be tonight, so …"

At that, Miles shrugged.

"So why don't you have your men ask **me** for **my** name, **my** occupation,** my** address" demanded Tom defiantly.

"It can be arranged" said Miles coolly.

"Please Tom, don't …" implored Sybil.

"Don't distress yourself Lady Sybil".

"It's **Mrs. Branson** to you" said Sybil enunciating her words carefully and with a defiance to match that of Tom.

"As you wish, **Mrs. Branson**, but I assure you that there's no need to ask your husband for his details; none at all". Miles gave them both a composed and satisfied look. "After all, we know **who** your husband is, **what** he does, and **where** he lives. And we also … know all about **you**". Miles smiled his thin smile, turned on his heel, and made to leave.

As he did so, from outside in the darkness, midst the rasp of the harsh voices of the soldiers and the pounding of heavy booted feet, there came the frightened squawk of chickens, the terrified whinnying of horses, and the plaintive lowing of cattle, followed swiftly thereafter by the sound of splintering wood, the breaking of glass, and the sickening crash and thud of furniture being carelessly overturned as the soldiers began ransacking the farmhouse.

Amidst guttural shouts, there came then a sudden and ragged burst of gunfire, followed by a scream, then silence. Moments later, the burly sergeant pounded at the double into the barn. Drawing to an abrupt halt directly in front of Miles, he saluted.

"Sergeant? You have something to report?"  
"Yes, sir. One of the prisoners, he tried to make a run for it …"


End file.
